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THE MUSE IN ARMS 



THE MUSE IN ARMS 



A COLLECTION OF WAR POEMS, FOR THE MOST 
PART WRITTEN IN THE FIELD OF ACTION, BY 
SEAMEN, SOLDIERS, AND FLYING MEN WHO ARE 
SERVING, OR HAVE SERVED, IN THE GREAT WAR 



EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 

BY E. B. OSBORN 




AUTHORIZED AMERICAN EDITION 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 






Gift 
Publisher 



0> 



if 



TO 

BRUCE LYTTFLTON RICHMOND 

WHOSE UNSELFISH DEVOTION 

HAS SO GREATLY SERVED 

THE CAUSE OF LITERATURE 

FOR SO MANY YEARS 



INTRODUCTION 



THE object of this Anthology is to show what passes 
in the British warrior's soul when, in moments of 
aspiration or inspiration, before or after action or in the 
busy days of self-preparation for self-sacrifice, he has 
glimpses of the ultimate significance of warfare. To some 
extent the selection (which can claim to be fairly represen- 
tative of the verses written by those who are serving, or 
have served, in the present world-war) presents a picture 
of the visible imagery of battle as mirrored in his mind. 
As such it illustrates his singular capacity for remembering 
the splendour and forgetting the squalor of the dreadful 
vocation in which he was so suddenly engaged — a capacity 
at the root of that infinite cheerfulness which was such a 
priceless military asset in the early days of disillusion and 
disaster. This all-important point is brought home by the 
following story which was told by a visitor to the west 
front — one who had lived all his life with soldiers, though 
not a soldier himself — during the final preparations for the 
Battle of Arras. He was watching a division moving up 
to the fighting line, in company with one of our Generals, 
to whom he propounded the question: "How is it that 
nothing can break the spirit of these men, whereas the rule 
used to be that a regiment which had suffered 20 to 30 per 
cent of casualties could no longer be relied on?" "Look 
at their faces, and you'll see why," answered the Gen- 
eral. And, looking at the faces of those who passed by, 

vii 



YI11 / INTRODUCTION 

the other saw in each one of them that open and sunny 
joyousness which is eternally expressed in the wonderful 
lines entitled "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell — concern- 
ing which Mr. Rudyard Kipling said: "His lips must have 
been touched." They were not merely unafraid; they all 
gloried in the thought of the great ordeal to come. And 
so they went up in sunshine and with singing to win un- 
dying fame and deathless gratitude in the valleys of de- 
cision where — 

The thundering line of battle stands, 
And in the air Death moans and sings. 

They had inherited the blithe, unconquerable courage of 
the little professional Army which saved the civilised world 
and England's honour in the still-victorious retreat from 
Mons to the Marne. For, as the General said, in further 
explanation of what must seem to the enemy a military 
miracle, something altogether above and beyond scientic ex- 
pectation, "The Old Army was the nation in miniature. 
The New Army is the nation itself." 

The poems here collected give, it is true, a stirring pic- 
ture of the outward and visible semblance of modern sci- 
entific warfare. But modern battles are so vast and so 
extended in both space and time that composed battle- 
pieces, such as have come down to us from the far-off 
centuries of archery and ballad-making, may no longer be 
looked for. The thread on which all such pictures are 
strung — the new impressions such as "The Assault" and 
old ballads such as "Agincourt, or the English Bowman's 
Glory" — is the insular conception of fighting as the great- 
est of all great games, that which is the most shrewdly 
spiced with deadly danger. The Germans, and even our 
Allies, cannot understand why this stout old nation per- 
sists in thinking of war as a sport; they do not know that 



INTRODUCTION IX 

sportsmanship is our new homely name, derived from a 
racial predilection for comparing great things with small, 
for the chevalerie of the Middle Ages. In "The English 
Bowman's Glory," written before any of our co-operative 
pastimes were thought of. the fine idea is veiled in this 
homely term: 

Agincourt, Agincourt! 
Know ye not Agincourt? 
Oh, it was noble sport! 

Then did we owe men; 
Men, who a victory won us 
'Gainst any odds among us: 

Such were our bowmen. 



Light is thrown on this phase of the British soldier's men- 
tality by the verse (examples of which I have selected) he 
writes in honour of the games and field-sports in which he 
acquired the basal elements of all true discipline — confi- 
dence in his companions and readiness to sacrifice the de- 
sire for personal distinction to the common interest of his 
team, which is, of course, a mimic army in being. 

But it is as an efflorescence of the spirit that this collec- 
tion of war poetry by those who know war from within 
is most engrossing. There has been nothing like it before in 
the history of English literature, nor, indeed, of any other 
literature. Even the long agony of the Napoleonic Wars, 
so fertile in picturesque episodes which stand out in the 
flux of indistinguishable incident, gave us only two or three 
poems by soldier poets. The celebration of its great days 
and personalities was left to the professional poets, who 
wove out of hearsay their gleaming webs of poetical rhetoric. 
At school we learn their well-made songs and odes by heart 
and find them the provender of patriotism; but, later on, 



X INTRODUCTION 

when we happen upon such crude and half-forgotten bal- 
ladry, much prefer Sergeant Grant's "Battle of Waterloo," 
with its quaint twelfth stanza: 

Here's a health to George our Royal King, and long may he 

govern, 
Likewise the Duke of Wellington, that noble son of Erin! 
Two years they added to our time for pay and pension too, 
And now we are recorded as men of Waterloo. 

or "Sahagun," that "Song of the 15th Hussars sung every 
December 21st," which begins: 

It was in quarters we lay as you quickly shall hear, 
Lord Paget came to us and bid us prepare, 
Saying, "Saddle your horses, for we must march soon, 
For the French they are lying in the town of Sahagun." 

In the older wars soldiers' songs sometimes — the more often, 
the further you go back — came into being much as folk- 
songs are supposed to have been evolved out of the com- 
munal consciousness. The old process was not unknown 
in the ranks of the Old Army in the first year of the pres- 
ent war, when, to give an example, the following chaffing 
ditty was sung up and down the trenches, by Territorials 
as well as by Regulars, when it seemed to them that Kitchen- 
er's Army would never arrive after all: 

Who are the boys that fighting's for, 
Who are the boys to win the war? 
It's good old Kitchener's Army. 
And every man of them's tres bon, 
They never lost a trench since Mons, 
Because they never saw one. 

But in these days, more's the pity, the popular music-hall 
song has put such spontaneous minstrelsy more or less out 
of court. It is the tune which counts; hosts have marched 



INTRODUCTION XI 

to it, and since it is memory-laden and a spell to conjure 
up sudden visions of the French country-side where they 
dared and endured, for those who marched to it there will 
always be an incidental beauty, an incommunicable enchant- 
ment, in its cheap, catchy rhythms. The words mattered 
not at all; or rather, each singer set his own meaning on 
them ; so that "Tipperary," say, was for one man a little 
upland hamlet in the Pennines: 

Where one may lounge i' the market-place, 
And see the meadows mown, 

and for a second the very next halting-place on the route- 
march, and for a third Berlin, the goal of the great adven- 
ture, and for a fourth a city shining far above and beyond 
the mirages of mortality. The time has not yet come to 
collect the soldiers' songs in many tongues, which are a 
product of this world-war, and will have, for all who read 
them centuries hence, the beauty of memorial that is felt 
rather than heard or seen — the same beauty of romantic 
reality which stirred the soul of Sir Philip Sidney when he 
heard "Chevy Chase" sung by a blind crowder, though, 
strange to say, it never moved him to make war poetry of 
his own. These songs will be few, far too few — for the 
gramophone has enabled the music-hall song to conquer even 
such border-lands of art-music as Serbia and Montenegro 
and Roumania, where it now takes its place even at the 
camp-fires and silences the makers of folk-song with a brazen, 
indefatigable voice. 

But for the music-hall song and another malign influence, 
this war might have given us a few English marching-songs 
equal in power and freshness to those which were sung 
by the men in blue and the men in grey, who wrought for 
the great Republic of the West a baptism of blood and 
tears. The other malign influence is that strange, literary 



Xll INTRODUCTION 

convention whereby the rank-and-file of our fighting men, 
by land and by sea, are made to speak a kind of Cockneyese 
of which no real Cockney is capable. The origin of this 
convention is very much of a mystery. By some critics 
it is supposed to be a result of the far-flung popularity of 
Mr. Rudyard Kipling's stories of soldiers. In his delight- 
ful book of reminiscences * Major-General Sir George 
Younghusband makes the following curious comments on 
this theory: 

I, myself, had served for many years with soldiers, but 
had never once heard the words or expressions that Rud- 
yard Kipling's soldiers used. Many a time did I ask my 
brother officers whether they had ever heard them. No, 
never. But, sure enough, a few years after, the soldiers 
thought, and talked, and expressed themselves exactly like 
Rudyard Kipling had taught them in his stories ! He would 
get a word here, or a stray expression there, and weave them 
into general soldiers' talk in his priceless stories. Rudyard 
Kipling made the modern soldier. Other writers have gone 
on with the good work, and they have between them 
manufactured the cheery, devil-may-care, lovable person en- 
shrined in our hearts as Tommy Atkins. 

However that may be, it is certain that the men of the 
New Army deeply resent the literary fashion which makes 
them talk like Chevalier's Cockney types — nay, even worse 
in a more variegated way, for the Chevalier dialect was 
actually spoken by the costermongers of his time, whereas 
the diction of soldiers in popular war-stories is as fear- 
fully and wonderfully made, as excruciatingly eclectic in 
fact, as the most recondite Doric of the Kailyard novel- 
ists. The men of the Lower Deck, who are all highly 
educated specialists, find this literary fashion most offen- 
sive to their self-respect, as I know from many conversa- 

1 A Soldier's Memories in Peace and War. Herbert Jenkins [1917]. 



INTRODUCTION Xlll 

tions on the subject. It may be that the seamen and 
private soldiers of the 'nineties were in the habit of dropping 
their h's and emasculating the broad open vowels. It is not 
so to-day, when, generally speaking, the King's fighting men 
— an educated nation in arms — speak the King's English. 
For this reason I have not admitted to this Anthology any 
of the innumerable pieces which are written in conventional 
Cockneyese. In such a case, insincerity of manner is as 
fatal a fault as insincerity of matter. If the writers of 
popular war literature would listen to soldiers talking, in- 
stead of imitating the diction of the "Barrack-room Ballads," 
they would get closer to the reality which is so infinitely 
preferable to all forms of literary realism. If it had been 
possible to find true dialect poems of the war — such as Wil- 
liam Barnes or Edwin Waugh would have written, had they 
been living to-day and of military age — I should have 
gladly included them. But as yet nothing of the kind has 
appeared, nor has anything of true worth been written, 
so far as I know, in that noble Doric — no dialect but an 
own sister of classic English — which has been finely handled 
of late years by Mr. Charles Murray and Mrs. Jacob. It 
would have been a great joy to find one or two Scottish 
war-songs, for the true Doric is the very honey of musical 
speech and sings itself so mellowly. But as long as such 
stuff as "My Daddy is a Fireman," and the revived Sal- 
vation Army ditty that begins — 

The bells of Hell ring ting-a-ling-a-Hng 
For you, but not for me, 

are in favour at the front, the maker of soldiers' songs in 
any mode can hardly hope for an audience to sing them 
back to him. 

So far, only the disappointments of the anthologist have 
been touched upon. Yet there is no reason to be disheart- 



XIV INTRODUCTION 

ened about the result of a year's researches; what this An- 
thology is outweighs all that it is not. More, and per- 
haps better, verse is yet to come from the many fronts of 
our amphibious warfare. Nevertheless this collection, with 
all its imperfections in craftsmanship, is the first coherent 
picture of the British warrior's moods and emotions in war- 
time which has ever been painted by himself. For that 
reason it is far more valuable than all the huge harvest 
of war poetry by civilian verse-makers. When this war 
began, the latter had a tremendous innings; the number 
of high-explosive canticles they produced is past counting, 
and no living critic can have read a tithe of them. One 
was disposed to sympathise with the complaint of the in- 
genious Mr. Dooley, who declared that the bombardment 
of defenceless persons by "concealed batteries iv poets" had 
added a new terror to warfare. Moreover, many of the 
products of this offensive in rhyme were clearly, as the 
same satirist observed, contrary to the Geneva conventions; 
specimens which failed to explode had been picked up and 
proved to contain lines capable of giving one a perpetual 
ear-ache. Mr. Kipling and the Poet Laureate and other 
established poets, it is true, had manfully resisted this strange 
scabies scribendi and so earned the gratitude of their ad- 
mirers, not so much for the few pieces they put forth, as 
for the many they left unwritten. Of all the vast mass 
of civilian war-verse, very little indeed will survive; with 
the exception of Mr. Laurence Binyon's noble valedictory 
"To the Fallen," and perhaps a dozen other poems as sim- 
ple and sincere, it has nearly all been cast ere now into 
the waste-paper basket of oblivion. The making of verse 
memorials is perhaps the only task to which the non-com- 
batant poet may address himself without fear of losing his 
sincerity, and with some hope of posterity's approval, if 
only he will try to imitate the simplicity of the antique 



INTRODUCTION XV 

models. The famous epitaph on Waggon Hill, above Lady- 
smith — 

Tell England, you who pass this monument, 
We died for her and rest here well content, 

rivals the immortal tribute by Simonides of Cos to Leo- 
nidas and his comrades in brevity and restraint, if not in 
beauty of musical diction. In the making of epitaphs for the 
fallen, the non-combatant poet, though he may not work 
in Latin, which is so truly "marble's language," could find 
a fitting occupation during war-time. 

A distinguishing characteristic of the new soldier-poet is 
the complete absence of the note of hatred for a most hate- 
ful enemy. It is curious how seldom he mentions or even 
remembers the German practitioner of what is called "ab- 
solute" warfare by modern disciples of Clausewitz. Of 
the many hundreds of his pieces (one in three of them un- 
published) I have considered only six were addressed to 
Germany or the Germans; and, of these six, not one was 
abusive or argumentative. All seemed to be written rather 
in sorrow than in anger; and the most deeply pondered is 
the sonnet "To Germany," by the late Captain Charles 
Sorley, which I have included as an example of a mood that 
so seldom becomes articulate. In this poem the cause of 
Armageddon is thus expounded: 

You only saw your future largely planned, 
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, 
And in each other's dearest ways we stand, 
And hiss out hate. And the blind fight the blind. 

No civilian poet, not being a Pacifist by profession, would 
have dared to write these lines, which any German might 
take as an apologia pro vitiis suis. The explanation of this 
absence of rancour is not far to seek. No civilised soldier 



XVI INTRODUCTION 

hates his enemy, howsoever hateful, when he has wreaked 
his righteous anger on him in action; and the last thing 
an Englishman would think of doing, when he returns to 
billets, is to write in the style of Lissauer's "Hymn of 
Hate." In one letter which accompanied a selection of 
verse, hasty but impressive, I read this sagacious saying: 
"Not worth while trying to score off the Boches in verse — 
we can do that better when fighting them." So invective is 
left to the non-combatant versifier, who has not the safety- 
valve of action in arms for his tumultuous feelings. Look- 
ing deeper into this matter, we see that the British soldier's 
attitude, finally expressed in the words of one of them, 
"Well, it's (Fritz; he can't help it, poor devil," is really 
based on the axiom of Christian morality that it is our duty 
to hate the offence, not the offender. Furthermore, his 
shrewd common sense enables him to see that all this "rag- 
ing against the enemy," which Bismarck praised as com- 
mendable in a war-like nation, is a waste of will-power and 
tissue. The tenacity of the British people in warfare is 
largely due, no doubt, to their faculty of economising emo- 
tions in a crisis, of avoiding all the excesses in word and 
thought which make for nervous exhaustion in a nation or 
an individual. Hatred, as psychologists teach us, uses up 
nervous energy; the very visage of the hater is that of an 
athlete who is making his final effort in some feat of strength 
or swiftness. 

Very little verse seems to have been written by German 
soldiers since the war began. Such tributes as were paid 
to "Father Blucher" by his men are altogether lacking; 
even Hindenburg, though supposed to be fashioned of the 
same knotted timber as Luther and Bismarck, has not in- 
spired a single soldier-poet. The truth is that Hindenburg 
is a deity, or rather a fetish, only to the non-combatant 
German. It would seem that the German soldiers, unlike 



INTRODUCTION XV11 

the French, or the British, have lost that faculty of hero- 
worship which, even if rooted in illusion, multiplies the 
man-power of an army in wondrous wise. Hero-worship 
is one of the spiritual factors overlooked by the inventors 
of Germany's system of scientific warfare, which might be 
compared with the invasion of the body by microbes — the 
bacilli of a "Grey Plague," as it were — actuated by a blind 
instinctive lust of destruction, as in this picture of a 
fever : 

Billions with billions wildly wrought, 
Unarmed, uncaptained, and untaught; 
For them no flaring battle-cry, 
No flaming banners tost on high. 

Even if the soldiers of the Allies had not been higher in 
the scale of spirituality than leucocytes, yet the German at- 
tack on civilisation must have failed — for the bodies poli- 
tic invaded were sound and healthy, and the cleansing sun 
and the sunlit air were also allied against the disease en- 
gendered in darkness and corruption. Of the small 
amount of verse written by German soldiers since the war 
began, and printed in German newspapers, nearly all is 
but flagrant rhetoric, noisy rather than strong, and "bloody- 
rooted though leaf-verdant," seeing that it grows out of a 
theory of national conduct which, having murdered peace, 
has aimed further at murdering war. The very few German 
trench poets are moved more by hatred for other people's 
countries than by love of their own, and, as munitions of 
spirituality, their poems are of less value than Zulu war- 
chants. And if we believe, with Napoleon the Great — a 
tyrant subject to 0/3pis, but not a barbarian — that war is 
three-fourths a moral issue, this non-moral stuff is yet an- 
other ominous sign that the German Army is doomed 
to die of its own soullessness, perhaps to run down sud- 



XV111 INTRODUCTION 

denly like a piece of clockwork with an exhausted spring. 
Another distinguishing characteristic of the work of 
our soldier-poets is the absence of the note of what may 
perhaps be called professional patriotism. The word 
"patriot" does not occur once in all the pieces I have read. 
Why? Because the soldier's love of his land, for which 
he willingly sacrifices all that he has been, all that he might 
be, is something inexpressive, never to be directly intimated, 
much less anatomised, in terms of 'ics and 'isms. Even so 
married lovers, in the first abounding joy of possession, 
never discuss the nature of love, but talk as a rule of trifling 
matters which are yet looked on as symbols of their sin- 
gular intimacy. As soon as they begin to philosophise about 
passion, the true at-one-ment has passed; they are on the 
way to being merely in love with loving rather than with 
one another. The soldier instinctively feels that, as soon 
as ever love of one's country and all that inhabits there 
is thought of as "patriotism," the best of its spiritual 
fragrance is beginning to be lost. It is then as a flower 
entered in a botanist's museum ; a quality once soul- 
compelling and inexplicable which must now be explained 
and justified; a thing to be dried, dissected, lectured upon, 
argued about. Ana in the end this mere philosophic 
'ism is apt to become nothing better than a form of poli- 
tics; a trick of logomachy which the partisan may seize for 
his own benefit, and refuse to all his opponents. Hence, 
the oft-quoted saying of Dr. Johnson, the most English of 
Englishmen, which has been so frequently and so foolishly 
used as an argument in favour of the cosmopolite's con- 
tention that man is but "parcelled out in men" by the sense 
of nationality. The soldier who devotes himself to the 
service, blissful, sacrificial, keen, of his one and only 
Motherland, has the self-same suspicion of the man who 
brags of his patriotism — party politicians will do well to 



INTRODUCTION XIX 

remember this fact when the war is over and they go vote- 
hunting once more. In his case only the patriotism which 
serves in silence counts, or will count at all; the partisan 
who thinks to curry favour by calling himself a patriot 
will be in the position of a person who styles himself a gen- 
tleman, and so becomes suspected of being merely gentle- 
manly. 

Wisely and warily then, the modern Sidneys and Raleighs 
never put to their lips the brazen trumpet of self-advertis- 
ing patriotism. Their love of country is expressed in a 
varied symbolism — in longing, lingering glances at the land 
which may not be able to give them even a grave, at the life 
relinquished which will yet be theirs again for evermore. 
Rupert Brooke's wonderful sonnet which begins, 

If I should die, think only this of me: 
That there's some corner of a foreign field 
That is for ever England, 

is the subtlest form of this beautiful symbolism — it would 
be a conceit in the Elizabethan sense but for the deep ten- 
derness which irradiates it with delight from within and 
lifts it far above the fantastical. 

Lieutenant Geoffrey Howard's "England 1- begins as 
finely in a more direct way, and is full of pride in the tre- 
mendous power of the little land so greatly beloved: 

Her seed is sown about the world. The seas 

For Her have paved their waters. She is known 
In swamps that steam about the burning zone, 
And dreaded in the last white lands that freeze. 

And altogether worthy of comparison with these two son- 
nets is the poem in which Lieutenant Robert Nichols is sud- 
denly aware that the last self-sacrifice, after all, is but the 



XX INTRODUCTION 

price that is due for the beauty of England inwrought in- 
extricably in his being: 

The gorse upon the twilit down, 

The English loam so sunset brown, 

The bowed pines and the sheep-bell's clamour, 

The wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer, 

The orchard and the chaffinch song, 

Only to the Brave belong; 

And he shall lose their joy for ay, 

If their price he cannot pay. 

Also he sees, in the self-same moment of vision, that the 
bravery of her lost sons will add to the beauty of the land 
adored. Furthermore, these soldier-poets ask nothing of 
England for themselves; they are not sorry for themselves 
because she is "cold and will not understand"; they are 
well content if only she will remain herself, the Gloriana 
of all the lands that ever have been or ever shall be. 
Therein their patriotism (to use the cold, inadequate, apol- 
ogetic term) exceeds that of the ancient Athenians, for 
whom Athens was not a mother-queen but a darling, dan- 
gerous mistress ... so that the withdrawal of her favour 
was poison in the very heart's blood, driving Alcibiades 
into ruthless treachery and making of Thucydides a mer- 
ciless cynic, whose history was intended to hold up the 
violet-crowned city to the smiling derision of all sequent 
centuries. Only in Houston Chamberlain has the ancient 
type of Greek traitor, the victim of an ingrowing ego- 
ism, dismally revisited this tragic star. That Germany's 
pride is less than ours appears in the fact that the Germans 
have used him as the Spartans used Alcibiades, whereas 
we have taken none of the help proffered by the many Ger- 
mans who had already sold Germany in their squalid 
souls. 

The symbolism in which love of country is shadowed 



INTRODUCTION XXI 

forth in the true English war-poetry assumes many forms 
in this Anthology. It is variously shown, this dominant 
emotion, in abiding memories of sights and sounds and 
odours of the green country-side, the turmoil and clangour 
of great cities, the historic towns inscribed with the "frozen 
music" of unravished centuries, the curious laws and quaint 
customs of famous schools and ancient universities, the more 
humane games which teach an unselfish discipline, the treas- 
ured books which are a mirror of the past that flashes light 
into the future. Now and again, also, there is a glimpse 
of the certainty that the dread glittering visage of war is 
what it has always been — that, as we are but guests of Eng- 
land's dead in their serried patience, so we go out to fight, 
or come back with thanksgiving, accompanied by ghostly 
comrades. 

But all this, and much more besides, is best learnt from 
the poems I have selected, the least skilful of which will 
have for our posterity the beauty of memorial. Many of 
these soldier-poets have already fallen in action; in every 
case — for example, in that of Captain Robert Palmer's one 
poem — each piece will be accepted as a testamentum mili- 
tare, bequeathing valour without rancour or repining as 
an heirloom to future generations. One generation will 
have all but perished before the end comes; few indeed 
will return to their former habitations in Oxford of all who 
bound themselves to return when the war was over and 
see that the old traditions were renewed and kept up by 
those who were too young to go to the war. The tremen- 
dous loss the nation will have suffered would be made 
manifest to all visitors to these ancient seats of learning 
if the American custom of class parades on academic fes- 
tivals existed in this country. At Harvard on one such 
occasion some years ago there was a deep silence when the 
classes of the years of the Civil War were passing — so 



XXII INTRODUCTION 

few of those who graduated then had survived ! But the 
youth we have lost in these dread years has not perished 
in vain; if "the spring has gone out of the year," as 
Pericles lamented, yet we are immeasurably the richer for 
the spirituality they have bequeathed to us, of which the 
poems in this book are an enduring expression. The time 
has not yet come to estimate the influence of their work on 
English literature in the nearer and further future. It may 
well be that the saying of one of the least conventional of 
them — 

On Achi Baba's rock their bones 

Whiten, and on Flanders' plain, 
But of their travailings and groans 

Poetry is born again, 

may be fulfilled in ways undreamed of. For the most part 
they have preferred stare super antiquas vias; to keep to 
conventional forms (such as the sonnet) and to use the 
traditional currency of thought even when they were think- 
ing in a new way. There are not wanting those who have 
fashioned new bottles for the new wine of aspiration ; some 
of these voices indeed cry aloud from the "battered trenches" 
against the established order of things. Some of them hope, 
when the "Red war is a dim rose in time," to create out 
of passion in retrospect poems that shall be nobler and 
more heartening than those wrought of too immediate pas- 
sion. May they live long and labour to that high end! 
All of them, as I know well, hope to rebuild our shat- 
tered national life so that it may be better worth fighting 
for. It is with sword and lyre that every new city nearer 
and yet nearer to the very C'witas Dei must be builded 
up. In the new sense of comradeship, which is the secret 
of our victorious warfare, and is an underlying motive of 
many of these poems, and explicit in but a few (being al- 



INTRODUCTION XX111 

most too sacred for an Englishman to write about) rests 
our best hope for the England that is to be. If the all- 
engrossing love of the regimental officer for his men, so 
poignantly expressed in the lines by Robert Nichols — 

Was there love once? I have forgotten her. 
Was there grief once? Grief still is mine. 
Other loves I have; men rough, but men who stir 
More joy, more grief, than love of thee and thine. 

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, 
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun, 
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, 
As whose children, brothers we are and one — 

or with even greater force in two simple lines from a poem 
by Lieutenant E. A. Mackintosh to the fathers of his friends 
fallen in action: 

You were only their fathers, 
I was their officer, — 

if this spirit can only be carried on into the hard days of 
the coming peace-time, we may surely await the future with 
a firm faith and without any amazement. Here, then, is 
a book of the munitions of remembrance and hopefulness. 

E. B. Osborn. 



ACKNOJ? LEDGMENTS 

/N the first place, I must heartily thank the authors who 
have personally given me permission to include pub- 
lished or unpublished poems in this Anthology. In many 
cases unpublished pieces offered for inclusion have proved 
unsuitable to its purpose. My gratitude to those who of- 
fered them is all the greater, because accompanied by a feel- 
ing of regret that every such selection is necessarily limited in 
size and scope. 

Where communication with a living writer has been diffi- 
cult or impracticable, relations or friends at home have kindly 
taken the responsibility of granting me permission to include 
examples of his work. I have to thank Lady Jenkins 
for manuscript poems by her son, Lieutenant A. L. Jenkins; 
Mrs. Rose-Troup for a selection from the unpublished verse 
of her son, Captain J. M. Rose-Troup, who is a prisoner 
of war in Germany; Miss Edith Harvey for permission to 
quote any poems I liked from "A Gloucestershire Lad," by 
her cousin, Lieutenant F. IV. Harvey, who is also in the 
enemy's hands; and Miss Marion Scott, as his literary 
representative, for the poems by Private Ivor Gurney. 

I am greatly indebted to the representatives of soldier-poets 
who have fallen in action or died of wounds. I have to thank 

XXV 



XXVI ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Lord and Lady Desborough for the poems by their sons, 
Captain Julian Grenfell and Lieutenant Gerald William 
Grenfell; Lady Glenconner for the three poems by her son. 
Lieutenant E. Wyndham Tennant; Lord St. David's for the 
excerpts from the "In Memoriam" collection of verse and 
prose by his son. Captain Colwyn Philipps; Professor W. R. 
Sorley for permission to reprint pieces from "Marlborough 
and Other Poems" by his son, Captain Charles H. Sorley, 
and also for helpful advice as to which were most character- 
istic of the author's personality ; Viscount Wolmer, M.P., for 
the sonnet by his brother, Captain Robert Palmer; the Bishop 
of Ipswich and St. Edmondsbury for the poems by his son, 
Lieutenant W. N. Hodgson, M.C.; Mr. J. Lockhart 
Sterling for examples of the poetical work of his son, Lieu- 
tenant R. W. Sterling, who won the Newdigate Prize Poem 
at Oxford in 19^3'> Mrs. Winterbotham for the two poems 
by her son, Lieutenant C. W . Winterbotham; Miss Pauline 
C lough for the pieces by Lieutenant A. Victor Ratcliffe; 
Mr. Erskine Macdonald for the sonnet by Sergeant John W . 
Streets; and Mr. F. Raymond Coulson for the poems by 
his son, Sergeant Leslie Coulson. 

I have also to thank "The Times" for allowing me to 
reprint the poems numbered V, VIII, XVII, XXX, 
XLVIII, LII, and LXVIII, all of which first appeared in 
its columns; "The Spectator" for permission to include one 
of the poems by Lieutenant Herbert Asquith; and "The 
New Witness" for a like courtesy in regard to two poems 
by Captain Colin S. Moncrieff. 

All the publishers approached have been most kind in 
consenting to republication. My thanks are especially due 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS XXVll 

to Messrs. Methuen for two pieces from. "A Naval Motley" 
by Lieutenant N. H. M. Corbett, R.N.; Mr. Herbert 
Jenkins for the two poems by Sergeant Patrick MacGill 
which were first published in his "Soldier Songs" ; Messrs. 
Sidgwick and Jackson for the various excerpts from the 
published works of Lieutenant F. W. Harvey, Lieutenant 
Herbert Asquith, and Mr. Edward Shanks; Messrs. Chatto 
and Windus for "Eyes in the Air" from "Guns" by Captain 
Gilbert Frankau, and for the pieces from "Ardours and 
Endurances" by Lieutenant Robert Nichols; Mr. Erskine 
Macdonald, who has allowed me to quote freely from 
"Fleur-de-Lys" by Lieutenant Dynely Hussey, "Under the 
Open Sky" by Private Harley Matthews, "Outposts" by 
Sergeant Leslie Coulson, and that charming little collection 
of real war-poetry entitled "Soldier Poets"; the Poetry 
Bookshop for the poem from "The Brazier" by Captain 
Robert Graves; Mr. B. H. Blackwell for the pieces I have 
taken from "Wheels" that much-discussed anthology, and 
from "Oxford and Flanders" by "Observer, R.F.C." 
{Captain Gordon A I chin) ; Mr. John Lane for the poem 
from "A Highland Regiment" by Lieutenant E. A. Mackin- 
tosh, M.C., and for the poem by Lieutenant R. M. Dennys 
from "There is no Death"; Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton 
for two poems from the volume by "T . B. D." (Commander 
W. M. James, R.N. ) ; Mr. Elkin Matthews for the quota- 
tions from "Comrades" by Private Alexander Robertson; 
Mr. A. L. Humphreys for the pieces from "Lays of the 
Hertfordshire Hunt," by Captain George U. Robins; Mr. 
William Heinemann for a poem from "The Old Huntsman" 
by Lieutenant Siegfried Sassoon; and Mr. John Murray for 



XXV111 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

the poems taken from "Ballads of Battle" by Sergeant 
Joseph Lee, and from "The Old Way," by Captain Ronald 
Hopwood, R.N. 

A. J. is a soldier; Imtarfa is a naval officer. The 
other pieces signed with initials are by civilian authors, 
and have been included — perhaps temporarily — to complete 
the picture of the spirit of British warfare. In all cases they 
are included on the express advice of military critics. I have 
to thank the Head Master of Eton for the lines "To Charles 
Lister," Mr. Ian Colvin for the spirited ballad of the Battle 
of the Falkland Islands, Mrs. Plowman for the poems which 
so poignantly depict the lot of the soldier s wife, and Miss 
Roma White for the opinions of a Fisherman {necessarily a 
combatant in a very real sense ) on the Battle of Jutland. 

Finally, I am indebted to the literary executor of 
the late Rupert Brooke and Messrs. Sidgwick and Jackson 
for permission to reprint two of the sonnets in "19 14 and 
Other Poems" 

It is hoped to extend this Anthology and make it fully 
representative as time goes on; for example, the fine work of 
the soldier poets of the Dominions will have to be included. 
I should be very grateful to readers who would call my atten- 
tion to poems of distinction, published or unpublished, by 
authors in this country or in the Dominions who have 
"arrived" too late to be represented in the present series. 

E. B. O. 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



a. j. 

Alchin, Captain 
R.F.C. and R.G.A. 



Gordon, 



Asquith, Lieutenant Herbert, 
R.F.A. 

»J<Brooke, Sub-Lieutenant 

Rupert, R.N.V.R. (died in 
the /Egean Sea, April 23, 

1915) 
C. A. A. 
Corbett, Lieutenant Noel M. 

F., R.N. 

•{•Coulson, Sergeant Leslie, 
Royal Fusiliers (killed in 
action, October 7) 

4«Dennys, Captain Richard 
M., Loyal North Lancashire 
Regiment (died of wounds 
received in the Somme Ad- 
vance, July 24, 1916) 

Frankau, Captain Gilbert, 
R.F.A. Staff Captain 

Graham, Captain H. S., Royal 
Engineers (Fortress) 

Graves, Captain Robert, Royal 
Welsh Fusiliers 

4«Grenfell, Captain the Hon. 
Julian, D.S.O., Royal Dra- 
goons (died of wounds, May 
27, 1915) 



The Tryst, 272 

The Road, 45; A Song of the 
Plane, 109 ; Two Pictures, 
in; Per Ardua ad Astra, 
113; Reconnaissance, 114 

To a Baby found paddling near 
the Lines, 65 ; War's Cataract, 
144 

If I should Die, 3 ; Gifts of 
the Dead, 143 



To Charles Lister, 140 
To a Naval Cadet, 86; Lines 
written somewhere in the 
North Sea, 88 
The God who waits, 285; Judg- 
ment, 288 ; The Rainbow, 291 

Better Far to Pass Away, 32 



Eyes in the Air, 105 

In the Lower Garden, 164; 

Mother's Birthday, 246 
Big Words, 25 ; Goliath and 

David, 134; Escape, 293 
Into Battle, 19; To a Black 

Greyhound, 201 ; Hymn to 

the Wild Boar, 203 ; The 

Hills, 278 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



»J"Grenfell, Lieutenant thi 
Hon. Gerald William, Rifle 
Brigade (killed in action July 

30, 1915) 
Gurney, Private Ivor, Glou- 
cester Regiment 



Harvey, Lieutenant F. W., 
D.C.M., Gloucester Regiment 
(prisoner of war in Ger- 
many) 

Herbert, Captain the Hon. 
Aubrey, M.P., Irish Guards, 
Interpreter 

»J«Hodgson, Lieutenant Wil- 
liam Noel, M.C., Devon Regi- 
ment (killed in action, July 
1, 1916) 

Hopwood, Captain Ronald A., 
R.N. 

Hussey, Lieutenant Dynely, 
Lancashire Fusiliers 



Hutcheon, Lieutenant Lessel, 
R.F.C. 

I. C 

Imtarfa 

James, Commander William 
M., R.N. 

Jenkins, Lieutenant A. L., 
Duke of Cornwall's Light In- 
fantry 

Lee, Sergeant Joseph, Black 
Watch 



To John, 139 



Strange Service, 14; To the 
Poet before Battle, 30; To 
Certain Comrades, 130; Af- 
terwards, 152 

If we Return, 150; A People 
Renewed, 151; Cricket: the 
Catch, 207; The Soldier 
speaks, 233 ; In Flanders, 
238 ; To his Maid, 254 

R. B., 128 ; To R at Anzac, 

136 

Reverie, 6 ; Before Action, 22 ; 
Release, 42; Ave, Mater — 
Atque Vale, 184 

The Old Way, 73 

Ode to a Young Man, 132; 
Easter Even, 221 ; Home- 
coming, 236; An Oxford Re- 
trospect, 188; Rainbow, 256 

The Flight to Flanders, 115 

Battle of Falkland Isles, 90; 

Guns at Sea, 94 

Song of the White Ensign, 78 ; 
Undying Days, 82 

The Spirit of Womanhood: I. 
Sending, 259; II. Rebellion, 
259; III. Peace, 260; Out- 
posts, 269 

The Home-coming, 215; The 
Half-hour's Furlough, 224; 
The Drum, 234; The Broken 
Heart, 239 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



XXXI 



•{•Littlejohn, Company-Ser- 
geant-Major W. H., Mid- 
dlesex Regiment (killed in 
action, April 10, 1917) 

MacGill, Sergeant Patrick, 
Irish Rifles 

Matthews, Private Harley, 
A.I.F. 

Mackintosh, Lieut. E. A. 
M.C., Seaforth Highlanders 

Nichols, Lieutenant Robert, 
R.F.A. 



0. 



•^Palmer, Captain the Hon. 
Robert, Hants Regiment 
(died in the Turkish Camp of 
wounds received on the Tigris 
on January 21, 1916) 

Perowne, Lieutenant Victor, 
Scots Guards 

•{•Philipps, Captain the Hon. 
Colwyn, Royal Horse Guards 
(killed in action, May 13, 
1915) 

Plowman, Dorothy 

Plowman, Second Lieutenant 
Max, West Yorkshire Regi- 
ment 



Holy Communion Service, Suvla 
Bay, 171; Suvla Bay, 251; A 
Prayer, 284; The Hospital 
Ship, 289 

In the Morning, 40; The Star- 
shell, 53 

The Sleep of Death, 227 

Cha Till Macgruimein, 218 

At the Wars, 4; Farewell, 7; 
The Approach: I. In the 
Grass: Halt by the Wayside, 
26; II. On the Way Up, 27; 
III. Nearer, 28 ; Comrades, 
49; Battle: I. Noon, 54; II. 
Night Bombardment, 55 ; The 
Assault, 58 ; The Last Salute, 
123 ; Fulfilment, 257 

Command of the Air, 108 ; The 
Death of the Zeppelin, 117 

How Long, O Lord? 162 



A Dirge, 126 

Release, 163; Racing Rhymes, 
198; To Mother, 245; I 
Love, 253 ; The Barrier, 255 

Any Soldier's Wife, 261 
When it's Over, 153 



•f'RATCLiFFE, Lieutenant A. 
Victor, West Yorkshire Regi- 
ment 



Optimism, 156 



XXXH 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



•[•Robertson, Private Alexan- 
der, York and Lancaster Regi- 
ment (killed in action, July 
i, 1916) 

•[•Robins, Captain George U., 
East Yorkshire Regiment 
(killed in action (gassed), 
May 5, 1915) 

Rose-Troup, Captain J. M., 
Queen's Regiment (prisoner 
of war in Germany) 

Sassoon, Lieutenant Siegfried, 
M.C., Royal Welsh Fusiliers 

SCOTT-MONCRIEFF, CAPTAIN 

Charles, King's Own Scottish 
Borders 

Shanks, Second Lieutenant 
Edward (temporary), South 
Lancashire Regiment 

Sitwell, Captain Osbert, 
Grenadier Guards 

•[•Sorley, Captain Charles H., 
Suffolk Regiment (killed in 
action, October 3, 1915) 

»J« Sterling, Lieutenant R. W., 
Royal Scots Fusiliers (killed 
in action, St. George's Day, 
1915) 

•}» Streets, Sergeant John W., 
York and Lancaster Regi- 
ment (killed in action, July 1, 
1916) 

4«Tennant, Lieutenant the 
Hon. E. Wyndham, Grena- 
dier Guards (killed in action 
on Western Front in Septem- 
ber 1915) 



The New JEneid, 44; A Dream 
of New College, 190 



The Soldier's Game, 195; Iving- 
hoe Hill, 205 



What is War? 

Honour, 176 ; 

267 
Absolution, 31 

Guard, 68 
The Field of 

Domum, 182; 



161 ; Harrow's 
The Listeners, 

The Rear- 
Honour, 175 ; 
The Willow 
Tree Bough, 240; Back in 
Billets, 275 
Marching at Home : Pictures, 
12; Low Germany, 242; On 
Account of Ill-health, 281 ; 
Good Wishes, 295 
Babel, 38; Tears, 271 

Two Sonnets, 147 ; To Ger- 
many, 149 ; A Letter from 
the Trenches, 178 ; The Army 
of Death, 217 

Historic Oxford, 186; The River 
Bathe, 199; The Bonny, 
Bonny Braes, 249; Last Lines, 
283 

Love of Life, 24 



Home Thoughts in Laventie, 9; 
Light after Darkness, 63 ; 
Reincarnation, 145 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



XXXU1 



Weaving, Lieutenant Wil- 
LOUGHBY, Royal Irish Guards 



White, Roma .... 

4«Wilkinson, Lieutenant Eric 
F., M.C., West Yorkshire 
Regiment (Leeds Rifles) 
(killed in action) 

»J«WlNTERBOTHAM, LIEUTENANT 

Cyril W., Gloucestershire 
Regiment (killed in action 
August 27, 1 91 6) 



Dies Irae, 37; Between the 
Trenches, 47; Birds in the 
Trenches, 64; The Dead, 
1915, 146; Ghosts (Flanders, 
1915), 220; The Warrior 
Month, 274; Progress, 277 

News of Jutland, 97 

Rugby Football, 208 



The Cross of Wood, 159; 
Christmas Prayer, 169 



CONTENTS 



THE MOTHER LAND 

PAGE 

I. If I Should Die Rupert Brooke 3 

II. At the Wars Robert Nichols 4 

III. Reverie William Noel Hodgson 6 

IV. Farewell Robert Nichols 7 

V. Home Thoughts in Laventie . E. Wyndham Tennant 9 

VI. Marching at Home: Pictures . . . Edward Shanks 12 

VII. Strange Service Ivor Gurney 14 

BEFORE ACTION 

VIII. Into Battle Julian Grenfell 19 

IX. Before Action William Noel Hodgson 22 

X. Love of Life John W. Streets 24 

XL Big Words Robert Graves 25 

XII. The Approach {Robert Nichols): 

t. In the Grass: Halt by the 

Wayside 26 

2. On the Way Up 27 

3. Nearer 28 

XIII. To the Poet before Battle .... Ivor Gurney 30 

XIV. Absolution Siegfried Sassoon 31 

XV. Better Far to Pass Away Richard Molesworth Denny s 32 

BATTLE PIECES 

XVI. Dies Irae Willoughby Weaving 37 

XVII. Babel Osbert Sitwell 38 

XVIII. In the Morning Patrick MacGill 40 

XIX. Release William Noel Hodgson 42 

XX. The New ^Eneid Alexander Robertson 44 

XXI. The Road Gordon Alchin 45 

XXXV 



PAGE 

XXII. Between the Trenches . Willoughby Weaving 47 

XXIII. Comrades Robert Nichols 49 

XXIV. The Star-Shell Patrick MacGill 53 

XXV. Battle {Robert Nichols): 

1. Noon 54 

2. Night Bombardment 55 

XXVI. The Assault Robert Nichols 58 

XXVII. Light after Darkness . . E. Wyndham Tennant 63 

XXVIII. Birds in the Trenches . . . Willoughby Weaving 64 
XXIX. To a Baby found paddling near the Lines 

Herbert Asquith 65 

XXX. The Rear-guard Siegfried Sassoon 68 

THE SEA AFFAIR 

XXXI. The Old Way Ronald Hopwood 73 

XXXII. Song of the White Ensign . William M. James 78 

XXXIII. Undying Days William M. James 82 

XXXIV. To a Naval Cadet .... Noel F. M. Corbett 86 
XXXV. Lines written somewhere in the North Sea 

Noel F. M. Corbett 88 

XXXVI. Battle of the Falkland Isles . . . . I. C. 90 

XXXVII. Guns at Sea Imtarfa 94 

XXXVIII. News of Jutland Roma White 97 

WAR IN THE AIR 

XXXIX. Eyes in the Air Gilbert Frankau 105 

XL. Command of the Air 0. 108 

XLI. A Song of the Plane Gordon Alchin 109 

XLII. Two Pictures Gordon Alchin n 1 

XLIII. Per Ardua ad Astra Gordon Alchin 113 

XLIV. Reconnaissance Gordon Alchin 114 

XLV. The Flight to Flanders . . . . Lessel Hutcheon 115 

XLVI. The Death of the Zeppelin 0. 117 

IN MEMORIAM 

XL VII. The Last Salute Robert Nichols 123 

XLVIII. A Dirge Victor Perowne 126 

XLIX. R. B Aubrey Herbert 128 

L. To Certain Comrades Ivor Gurney 130 



CONTENTS 



LI. Ode to a Young Man Dynely Hussey 

LII. Goliath and David Robert Graves 

LIU. To R at Anzac Aubrey Herbert 

LIV. To John William Grenfell 

LV. To Charles Lister C. A. A. 



132 

136 
139 
140 



THE FUTURE HOPE 



LVI. Gifts of the Dead 

LVIL War's Cataract 

LVIII. Reincarnation . 

LIX. The Dead, 1915 

LX. Two Sonnets . 

LXL To Germany 

LXIL If we Return . 

LXIII. A People Renewed 

LXIV. Afterwards 

LXV. When it's Over 

LXVI. Optimism . . 



Rupert Brooke 143 

. Herbert Asquith 144 

E. Wyndham Tennant 145 

Willoughby Weaving 146 

Charles Hamilton Sorley 147 

Charles Hamilton Sorley 149 

F. W. Harvey 150 

F. W. Harvey 151 

. Ivor Gurney 152 

Max Plowman 153 

A. V. Ratcliffe 156 



THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 

LXVII. The Cross of Wood . . . Cyril Winterbotham 159 

LXVIII. What is War? J.M. Rose-Troup 161 

LXIX. How long, O Lord? .... Robert Palmer 162 

LXX. Release Colwyn Philipps 163 

LXXI. In the Lower Garden ... H. S. Graham 164 

LXXII. A Christmas Prayer . Cyril Winterbotham 169 

LXXIII. Holy Communion Service, Suvla Bay 

W. H. Little John 171 



SCHOOL AND COLLEGE 

LXXIV. The Field of Honour . Charles Scott-Moncrief 175 

LXXV. Harrow's Honour .... J.M. Rose-Troup 176 
LXXVI. A Letter from the Trenches 

Charles Hamilton Sorley 178 

LXXVII. Domum Charles Scott-Moncrief 182 

LXXVIII. Ave, Mater — Atque Vale William Noel Hodgson 184 

LXXIX. Historic Oxford R. W. Sterling 186 

LXXX. An Oxford Retrospect . Dynely Hussey 188 

LXXXI. A Dream of New College Alexander Robertson 190 



CHIVALRY OF SPORT 



LXXXII. The Soldier's Game . 

LXXXIII. Racing Rhymes . . 

LXXXIV. The River Bathe . . 

LXXXV. To a Black Greyhound 

LXXXVI. Hymn to the Wild Boar 

LXXXVII. Ivinghoe Hill . . . 

LXXXVIII. Cricket: the Catch . 

LXXXIX. Rugby Football . . 



George U. Robins 

. Colwyn Philipps 

R. W. Sterling 

Julian Grenfell 

Julian Grenfell 

George U. Robins 

F. W. Harvey 

Eric Wilkinson 



195 
198 
199 

201 
203 
205 
207 
208 



THE GHOSTLY COMPANY 



XC. The Home-coming . 

XCI. The Army of Death 

XCII. Cha Till Maccruimein 

XCIII. Ghosts (Flanders, 1915) 

XCIV. Easter Even . . . 

XCV. The Half-hour's Furlough 

XCVI. The Sleep of Death . . 



Joseph Lee 215 

Charles Hamilton Sorley 217 

E. A. Mackintosh 218 

Willoughby Weaving 220 

Dynely Hussey 221 

Joseph Lee 224 

Harley Matthews 227 



XCVII. 

XCVIII. 

XCIX. 

c. 

CI. 

en. 

cm. 



civ. 

cv. 

cvi. 

CVII. 
CVIII. 

cix. 
ex. 

CXI. 
CXII. 



SONGS 

The Soldier Speaks F. W. Harvey 

The Drum Joseph Lee 

Home-coming Dynely Hussey 

In Flanders F. W. Harvey 

The Broken Heart Joseph Lee 

The Willow-tree Bough Charles Scott-Moncrieff 
Low Germany Edward Shanks 

LOVING AND LIVING 

To Mother Colwyn Philipps 

Mother's Birthday H. S. Graham 

The Bonny, Bonny Braes . . R. W. Sterling 

Suvla Bay W. H. Littlejohn 

I Love Colwyn Philipps 

To His Maid F. W. Harvey 

The Barrier Colwyn Philipps 

Rainbow Dynely Hussey 

Fulfilment Robert Nichols 



233 
234 
236 
238 

239 
240 
242 



245 
246 
249 
251 
253 
254 
255 
256 

257 



CONTENTS XXXIX 

PAGE 

CXIII. The Spirit of Womanhood {A. L. Jenkins): 

i. Sending 259 

2. Rebellion 259 

3. Peace 260 

CXIV. Any Soldier's Wife .... Dorothy Plowman 261 



MOODS AND MEMORIES 

CXV. The Listeners /. M. Rose-Troup 267 

CXVI. Outposts A. L. Jenkins 269 

CXVII. Tears Osbert Sitwell 271 

CXVIII. The Tryst A. J. 272 

CXIX. The Warrior Month . . Willoughby Weaving 274 

CXX. Back in Billets .... Charles Scott-Moncrieff 275 

CXXI. Progress Willoughby Weaving 277 

CXXII. The Hills Julian Grenfell 278 

CXXIII. On Account of III Health . . Edward Shanks 281 

CXXIV. Last Lines R. W. Sterling 283 

CXXV. A Prayer W. H. Littlejohn 284 

CXXVI. The God who waits .... Leslie Coulson 285 

CXXVII. Judgment Leslie Coulson 288 

CXXVIII. The Hospital Ship .... W. H. Littlejohn 289 

CXXIX. The Rainbow Leslie Coulson 291 

CXXX. Escape Robert Graves 293 

CXXXI. Good Wishes Edward Shanks 295 



The Mother Land 



If I Should Die 

IF I should die, think only this of me: 
That there's some corner of a foreign field 
That is for ever England. There shall be 

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed ; 
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
A body of England's, breathing English air, 
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. 

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, 
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less 

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given 
Her sights and sounds ; dreams happy as her day ; 
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, 
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 

Brooke. 



II 
At the Wars 

NOW that I am ta'en away 
And may not see another day 
What is ft to my eye appears? 
What sound rings in my stricken ears? 
Not even the voice of any friend 
Or eyes beloved-world-without-end, 
But scenes and sounds of the country-side 
In far England across the tide: 
An upland field when spring's begun, 
Mellow beneath the evening sun. . . . 
A circle of loose and lichened wall 
Over which seven red pines fall. . . . 
An orchard of wizen blossoming trees 
Wherein the nesting chaffinches 
Begin again the self-same song 
All the late April day-time long. . . . 
Paths that lead a shelving course 
Between the chalk scarp and the gorse 
By English downs ; and oh ! too well 
I hear the hidden, clanking bell 
Of wandering sheep. ... I see the brown 
Twilight of the huge, empty down 
4 



AT THE WARS 

Soon blotted out! for now a lane 
Glitters with warmth of May-time rain. 
And on a shooting briar I see 
A yellow bird who sings to me. 

O yellow-hammer, once I heard 
Thy yaffle when no other bird 
Could to my sunk heart comfort bring; 
But now I could not have thee sing 
So sharp thy note is with the pain 
Of England I may not see again! 
Yet sing thy song: there answereth 
Deep in me a voice which saith : 
"The gorse upon the twilit down, 
The English loam so sunset brown, 
The bowed pines and the sheep-bells' clamour, 
The wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer, 
The orchard and the chaffinch song 
Only to the Brave belong, 
And he shall lose their joy for aye 
If their price he cannot pay. 
Who shall find them dearer far 
Enriched by blood after long war" 

Robert Nichols. 



Ill 
Reverie 

AT home they see on Skiddaw 
His royal purple lie, 
And autumn up in Newlands 
Arrayed in russet die, 
Or under burning woodland 
The still lake's gramarye. 
And far off and grim and sable 
The menace of the Gable 
Lifts up his stark aloofness 
Against the western sky. 

At vesper-time in Durham 
The level evening falls 
Upon the shadowy river 
That slides by ancient walls, 
Where out of crannied turrets 
The mellow belfry calls. 
And there sleep brings forgetting 
And morning no regretting, 
And love is laughter-wedded 
To health in happy halls. 

W. N. Hodgson. 
6 



IV 

Farewell 

FOR the last time, maybe, upon the knoll 
I stand. The eve is golden, languid, sad. . . 
Day like a tragic actor plays his role 
To the last whispered word and falls gold-clad. 
I, too, take leave of all I ever had. 

They shall not say I went with heavy heart: 
Heavy I am, but soon I shall be free, 
I love them all, but oh I now depart 
A little sadly, strangely, fearfully, 
As one who goes to try a mystery. 

The bell is sounding down in Dedham vale: 
Be still, O bell: too often standing here 
When all the air was tremulous, fine and pale, 
Thy golden note so calm, so still, so clear, 
Out of my stony heart has struck a tear. 

And now tears are not mine. I have release 
From all the former and the later pain, 
Like the mid sea I rock in boundless peace 
Soothed by the charity of the deep-sea rain. . . . 
Calm rain! Calm sea! Calm found, long sought in vain! 

7 



8 



FAREWELL 



O bronzen pines, evening of gold and blue, 
Steep mellow slope, brimmed twilit pools below, 
Hushed trees, still vale dissolving in the dew, 
Farewell. Farewell. There is no more to do. 
We have been happy. Happy now I go. 

Robert Nichols. 
Expeditionary Force Leave, 
1915. 



Home Thoughts in Laventie 



G 



REEN gardens in Laventie! 
Soldiers only know the street 
Where the mud is churned and splashed about 
By battle-wending feet; 
And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass. 
Look for it when you pass. 

Beyond the church whose pitted spire 

Seems balanced on a strand 
Of swaying stone and tottering brick 

Two roofless ruins stand, 
And here behind the wreckage where the back wall should 
have been 

We found a garden green. 

The grass was never trodden on, 

The little path of gravel 
Was overgrown with celandine, 
No other folk did travel 
Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse 
Running from house to house. 
9 



IO HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE 

So all among the vivid blades 

Of soft and tender grass 
We lay, nor heard the limber wheels 

That pass and ever pass, 
In noisy continuity until their stony rattle 

Seems in itself a battle. 



At length we rose up from this ease 

Of tranquil happy mind, 
And searched the garden's little length 

A fresh pleasaunce to find ; 
And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high 

Did rest the tired eye. 

The fairest and most fragrant 

Of the many sweets we found, 
Was a little bush of Daphne flower 
Upon a grassy mound, 
And so thick were the blossoms set and so divine the scent 
That we were well content. 

Hungry for spring, I bent my head, 

The perfume fanned my face, 
And all my soul was dancing 
In that little lovely place, 
Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and shattered 
towns 

Away . . . upon the Downs. 



HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE II 

I saw green banks of daffodil, 
Slim poplars in the breeze, 
Great tan-brown hares in gusty March 
A-courting on the leas; 
And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver 
scurrying dace, 

Home — what a perfect place! 

E. Wyndham Tennant. 
Belgium, March, 191 6. 



VI 

Marching at Home 



UNDER a grey dawn, timidly breaking, 
Through the little village the men are waking, 
Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes; 
From my misted window I watch the sun rise. 
In the middle of the village a fountain stands, 
Round it the men sit, washing their red hands. 
Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over, 
Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover, 
Slowly the company gathers all together 
And the men and the officer look shyly at the weather. 
By the left, quick march ! Off the column goes. 
All through the village all the windows unclose: 
At every window stands a child, early waking, 
To see what road the company is taking. 

II 

The wind is cold and heavy 

And storms are in the sky: 
Our path across the heather 

Goes higher and more high. 

12 



MARCHING AT HOME 1 3 

To right, the town we came from, 

To left, blue hills and sea: 
The wind is growing colder, 

And shivering are we. 

We drag with stiffening fingers 

Our rifles up the hill. 
The path is steep and tangled, 

But leads to Flanders still. 

Edward Shanks. 



VII 

Strange Service 

LITTLE did I dream, England, that you bore me 
Under the Cotswold Hills beside the water meadows 
To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders 
And your enfolding seas. 

I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service 
Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty, 
As through a child's face one may see the clear spirit 
Miraculously shining. 

Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly, 
Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river 
Muddy and strongly flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets 
Safe in its bosom. 

Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy 

sky-pools 
Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs ; 
But deep in my heart for ever goes on your daily being 
And uses consecrate. 

14 



STRANGE SERVICE 1 5 

Think on me too, O Mother, who wrest my soul to serve 

you 
In strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters; 
None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice, 
None, but you, repay. 

Ivor Gurney. 



Before Action 



VIII 

Into Battle 

THE naked earth is warm with spring, 
And with green grass and bursting trees 
Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, 

And quivers in the sunny breeze; 
And life is colour and warmth and light, 

And a striving evermore for these ; 
And he is dead who will not fight ; 
And who dies fighting has increase. 

The fighting man shall from the sun 

Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth ; 
Speed with the light-foot winds to run, 

And with the trees to newer birth ; 
And find, when fighting shall be done, 

Great rest, and fullness after dearth. 

All the bright company of Heaven 
Hold him in their high comradeship, 

The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven, 
Orion's Belt and sworded hip. 
19 



20 INTO BATTLE 

The woodland trees that stand together, 
They stand to him each one a friend ; 

They gently speak in the windy weather; 
They guide to valley and ridge's end. 

The kestrel hovering by day, 

And the little owls that call by night, 

Bid him be swift and keen as they, 
As keen of ear, as swift of sight. 

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, 
If this be the last song you shall sing, 

Sing well, for you may not sing another; 
Brother, sing." 

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, 

Before the brazen frenzy starts, 
The horses show him nobler powers; 

O patient eyes, courageous hearts! 

And when the burning moment breaks, 
And all things else are out of mind, 

And only joy of battle takes 

Him by the throat, and makes him blind, 

Through joy and blindness he shall know 
Not caring much to know, that still 

Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so 
That it be not the Destined Will. 









INTO BATTLE 21 

The thundering line of battle stands, 
And in the air death moans and sings; 

But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, 
And Night shall fold him in soft wings. 

Julian Grenfell. 



IX 

Before Action 

BY all the glories of the day 
And the cool evening's benison, 
By that last sunset touch that lay 

Upon the hills when day was done, 
By beauty lavishly outpoured 

And blessings carelessly received, 
By all the days that I have lived 
Make me a soldier, Lord. 

By all of all man's hopes and fears, 

And all the wonders poets sing, 
The laughter of unclouded years, 

And every sad and lovely thing ; 
By the romantic ages stored 

With high endeavour that was his, 
By all his mad catastrophes 

Make me a man, O Lord. 

I, that on my familiar hill 

Saw with uncomprehending eyes 

A hundred of Thy sunsets spill 
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, 



BEFORE ACTION 23 

Ere the sun swings his noonday sword 
Must say good-bye to all of this ; — 

By all delights that I shall miss, 
Help me to die, O Lord. 

W. N. Hodgson. 

June 2Qth, 1916. 



Love of Life 



REACH out thy hands, thy spirit's hands, to me 
And pluck the youth, the magic from my heart — 
Magic of dreams whose sensibility 
Is plumed like the light; visions that start 
Mad pressure in the blood ; desire that thrills 
The soul with mad delight: to yearning wed 
All slothfulness of life; draw from its bed 
The soul of dawn across the twilight hills. 
Reach out thy hands, O spirit, till I feel 
That I am fully thine; for I shall live 
In the proud consciousness that thou dost give, 
And if thy twilight fingers round me steal 
And draw me unto death — thy votary 
Am I, O Life; reach out thy hands to me! 

John W. Streets. 



24 



XI 



Big Words 



I'VE whined of coming death, but now, no more! 
It's weak and most ungracious. For, say I, 
Though still a boy if years are counted, why! 
I've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor, 
And feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore, 
Ready, so soon as the need comes, to die : 

And I'm satisfied. 
For winning confidence in those quiet days 
Of peace, poised sickly on the precipice side 
Of Lliwedd crag by Snowdon, and in war 
Finding it flrmlier with me than before; 
Winning a faith in the wisdom of God's ways 
That once I lost, finding it justified 
Even in this chaos; winning love that stays 
And warms the heart like wine at Easter-tide ; 

Having earlier tried 
False loves in plenty ; oh ! my cup of praise 
Brims over, and I know I'll feel small sorrow, 
Confess no sins and make no weak delays 
If death ends all and I must die to-morrow." 
But on the firestep, waiting to attack, 
He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back 

Robert Graves. 
25 



XII 



The Approach 

1. In the Grass: Halt by the Wayside 



i 



N my tired, helpless body 
I feel my sunk heart ache; 
But suddenly, loudly 
The far, the great guns shake. 



Is it sudden terror 
Burdens my heart? My hand 
Flies to my head. I listen. . . 
And do not understand. 

Is death so near, then ? 
From this blazing light, 
Do I plunge suddenly 
Into vortex? Night? 



Guns again! the quiet 
Shakes at the vengeful voice. 
It is terrible pleasure. 
I do not fear; I rejoice. 
26 



THE APPROACH 27 

2. On the Way Up 

The battery grides and jingles, 
Mile succeeds to mile ; 
Shaking the noonday sunshine, 
The guns lunge out a while 
And then are still a while. 

We amble along the highway; 
The reeking, powdery dust 
Ascends and cakes our faces, 
With a striped, sweaty crust. 

Under the still sky's violet 
The heat throbs in the air. . . . 
The white road's dusty radiance, 
Assumes a dark glare. 

With a head hot and heavy, 
And eyes that cannot rest, 
And a black heart burning 
In a stifled breast, 

I sit in the saddle, 

I feel the road unroll, 

And keep my senses straightened 

Toward to-morrow's goal. 

There over unknown meadows, 
Which we must reach at last, 
Day and night thunders 
A black and chilly blast. 



28 THE APPROACH 

Heads forget heaviness, 
Hearts forget spleen, 
For by that mighty winnowing 
Being is blown clean. 

Light in the eyes again, 
Strength in the hand, 
A spirit dares, dies, forgives 
And can understand. 

And best! Love comes back again 
After grief and shame, 
And along the wind of death 
Throws a clean flame! 



The battery grides and jingles; 
Mile succeeds to mile; 
Suddenly battering the silence 
The guns burst out a while. 



I lift my head and smile. 



3. Nearer 

Nearer and ever nearer. . . 
My body tired but tense 
Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure 
And tremulous confidence. 



THE APPROACH 29 

Arms to have and to use them, 
And a soul to be made 
Worthy if not worthy ; 
If afraid, unafraid! 

To endure for a little, 
To endure and have done: 
Men I love about me, 
Over me the sun ! 

And should at last suddenly 
Fly the speeding death : 
The four great quarters of heaven 
Receive this little breath. 

Robert Nichols. 



XIII 

To the Poet before Battle 

NOW, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes ; 
Thy lovely things must all be laid away; 
And thou, as others, must face the riven day 
Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums 
Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs 
The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway, 
Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say 
Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs 
Of praise the little versemen joyed to take 
Shall be forgotten; then they must know we are, 
For all our skill in words, equal in might 
And strong of mettle as those we honoured. Make 
The name of poet terrible in just war, 
And like a crown of honour upon the fight. 

Ivor Gurney. 



30 



XIV 

Absolution 

THE anguish of the earth absolves our eyes 
Till beauty shines in all that we can see. 
War is our scourge ; yet war has made us wise, 
And, fighting for our freedom, we are free. 

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe, 
And loss of things desired ; all those must pass. 
We are the happy legion, for we know 
Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass. 

There was an hour when we were loth to part 
From life we longed to share no less than others. 
Now, having claimed his heritage of heart, 
What need we more, my comrades and my brothers ? 

Siegfried Sassoon. 



3' 



XV 

Better Far to Pass Away 

BETTER far to pass away 
While the limbs are strong and young, 
Ere the ending of the day, 

Ere youth's lusty song be sung. 
Hot blood pulsing through the veins, 
Youth's high hope a burning fire, 
Young men needs must break the chains 

That hold them from their hearts' desire. 

My friends the hills, the sea, the sun, 

The winds, the woods, the clouds, the trees — 
How feebly, if my youth were done, 

Could I, an old man, relish these! 
With laughter, then, I'll go to greet 

What Fate has still in store for me, 
And welcome Death if we should meet, 

And bear him willing company. 

My share of fourscore years and ten 

I'll gladly yield to any man, 
And take no thought of "where" or "when," 

Contented with my shorter span. 
32 



BETTER FAR TO PASS AWAY 33 

For I have learned what love may be, 

And found a heart that understands, 
And known a comrade's constancy, 

And felt the grip of friendly hands. 

Come when it may, the stern decree 

For me to leave the cheery throng 
And quit the sturdy company 

Of brothers that I work among. 
No need for me to look askance, 

Since no regret my prospect mars. 
My day was happy — and perchance 

The coming night is full of stars. 

Richard Molesworth Dennys. 



Battle Pieces 



XVI 

Dies Irae 

THE land went up in fire and curdled smoke, 
And the flames flickered on the flowing blood, 
And all the hot air thick with thunder stood 
Shaken, as oxen shake beneath a yoke 
And rattle all their harness: laughter broke, 
A horrid laughter, from the steaming flood, 
And the unpent cry of broken womanhood 
Mounted to God and hid him like a cloak. 

Red mortal wrath of man, that so he dies 

For indignation just, and lightly slays, 

Sealing so bloodily his length of days, 

Regarding not the splendid sacrifice, 

Holding the gift of life below God's price 

To his eternal glory and God's praise. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 
In Flanders. 



37 



XVII 

Babel 

Therefore is the name of it called Babel 

AND still we stood and stared far down 
Into that ember-glowing town 
Which every shaft and shock of fate 
Had shorn unto its base. Too late 
Came carelessly Serenity. 

Now torn and broken houses gaze 
On to the rat-infested maze 
That once sent up rose-silver haze 
To mingle through eternity. 

The outlines, once so strongly wrought, 
Of city walls, are now a thought 
Or jest unto the dead who fought . . . 
Foundation for futurity. 

The shimmering sands where once there played 
Children with painted pail and spade 
Are drearly desolate, — afraid 
To meet Night's dark humanity, 
38 



BABEL 39 

Whose silver cool remakes the dead, 
And lays no blame on any head 
For all the havoc, fire, and lead, 
That fell upon us suddenly. 

When all we came to know as good 
Gave way to Evil's fiery flood, 
And monstrous myths of iron and blood 
Seem to obscure God's clarity. 

Deep sunk in sin, this tragic star 
Sinks deeper still, and wages war 
Against itself ; strewn all the seas 
With victims of a world disease. 
— And we are left to drink the lees 
Of Babel's direful prophecy. 

OSBERT SlTWELL. 



XVIII 

In the Morning 

(Loos, 1915) 

THE firefly haunts were lighted yet, 
As we scaled the top of the parapet; 
But the east grew pale to another fire, 

As our bayonets gleamed by the foeman's wire; 
And the sky was tinged with gold and grey, 

And under our feet the dead men lay, 
Stiff by the loop-holed barricade ; 

Food of the bomb and the hand-grenade; 
Still in the slushy pool and mud — 

Ah, the path we came was a path of blood, 
When we went to Loos in the morning. 

A little grey church at the foot of a hill, 

With powdered glass on the window-sill — 
The shell-scarred stone and the broken tile, 

Littered the chancel, nave, and aisle — 
Broken the altar and smashed the pyx, 

And the rubble covered the crucifix; 
This we saw when the charge was done, 

And the gas-clouds paled in the rising sun, 
As we entered Loos in the morning. 
40 



IN THE MORNING 41 

The dead men lay on the shell-scarred plain, 

Where Death and the Autumn held their reign — 
Like banded ghosts in the heavens grey 

The smoke of the powder paled away; 
Where riven and rent the spinney trees 

Shivered and shook in the sullen breeze, 
And there, where the trench through the graveyard wound 

The dead men's bones stuck over the ground 
By the road to Loos in the morning. 

The turret towers that stood in the air, 

Sheltered a foeman sniper there — 
They found, who fell to the sniper's aim, 

A field of death on the field of fame; 
And stiff in khaki the boys were laid 

To the sniper's toll at the barricade, 
But the quick went clattering through the town, 

Shot at the sniper and brought him down, 
As we entered Loos in the morning. 

The dead men lay on the cellar stair, 

Toll of the bomb that found them there. 
In the street men fell as a bullock drops, 

Sniped from the fringe of Hulluch copse. 
And the choking fumes of the deadly shell 

Curtained the place where our comrades fell. 
This we saw when the charge was done 

And the east blushed red to the rising sun 
In the town of Loos in the morning. 

Patrick MacGill. 



XIX 

Release 

(Composed while marching to Rest-camp after 
severe Fighting at Loos) 

A LEAPING wind from England, 
The skies without a stain, 
Clean cut against the morning 

Slim poplars after rain, 
The foolish noise of sparrows 

And starlings in a wood — 
After the grime of battle 

We know that these are good. 



Death whining down from heaven, 

Death roaring from the ground, 
Death stinking in the nostril, 

Death shrill in every sound, 
Doubting we charged and conquered — 

Hopeless we struck and stood; 
Now when the fight is ended 

We know that it was good. 
42 



RELEASE 43 

We that have seen the strongest 

Cry like a beaten child, 
The sanest eyes unholy, 

The cleanest hands defiled, 
We that have known the heart-blood 

Less than the lees of wine, 
We that have seen men broken, 

We know man is divine. 

W. N. Hodgson. 



XX 

The New JEneid 

THESE waters saw the gilded galleys come 
From the red east: the oarsmen cast their gaze 
Upon its brightness, and recalled the blaze 
With sorrowing hearts of once proud Ilium. 
Men without homes they were, yet unafraid 
Westward they fared some far-off home to seek, 
Their sires, whose power revenged them on the Greek, 
And round these seas a mighty empire made. 
Ah, strong immortal rowers, that never were! 
Leader that lived not, deathless in the song 
Sung to Rome's glory, — 'mid a martial throng, 
I bless the answer to an ancient prayer, 
Clear-eyed to see what once was partly hid, 
The splendid pageant of the iEneid. 

Alexander Robertson. 
In Gallipoli. 



44 



XXI 

The Road 

THEN first the paving of the Road 
Rang to the tread of the marching Roman, 
And Caesar's legions seaward strode 
To find a yet unmastered foeman, — 
Full many a curse, of ancient flavour, 
Rolled far along the muddy Way; 
A curse upon the highway's paver, 
Whose echoes linger to this day! 

A thousand years — (when England lay 

Beneath the heel of the Norman raider) : — 
The cobbles of the age-worn Way 

Echo the march of the mailed Crusader: 
Whilst many an oath, of pious fervour, 
Between their chaunt and roundelay, 
Gives proof to any close observer, 
That men are little changed to-day! 

Again a thousand years — again 

The ancient frontier Road enslaving, 

Come horse and cannon, motor-train: — 
All sweep along the narrow paving. 
45 



46 THE ROAD 

A wondrous change, you say? but listen! 

Listen to the words they say! 
What matter cannon, petrol, piston? 

The men are just the same to-day! 

Gordon Alchin. 



XXII 

Between the Trenches 

HOW strangely did you break upon 
That sudden land beyond life's veil? 
A moment did your spirit fail, 
As mine when first I knew you gone 
The last dark journey, saw your clay 
So vacant, loveless, borne away, 

And the features, that I loved to scan, 
The same but of another man 
Unknown — a bright dream all undone. 



What stranger did the bearers lift 

In their soiled stretcher lightly laid 
Where I had seen you fall adrift 

From life — had time to be afraid? 
— That, all of you that had breathed and moved, 
That, none of you that lived and loved, 

A husk that so I seemed to hate 

For claiming still its lost inmate, 
A false pretence, a solid shade. 
47 



BETWEEN THE TRENCHES 

Shadow more solid, but less real 

Than love and laughter whence it fell 

Across my path with mute appeal 

And served your spirit's purpose well — 

So well that even I could see 

It indistinguishably thee, 

Till you had left it like a sheath 
With laughter in the hands of death, 

And left me gay, not miserable. 

Ah, love had never more to loose: 

If certain love had less to tell 
Then might I in despair's excuse 

Bid you a hopeless, vain farewell, 
And by the stranger's grave have wept 
A solemn while, and sadly kept 

In mind his features filled not through 

With breathing life, love living, you 
Who smiled upon his burial. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 



XXIII 

Comrades 

BEFORE, before he was aware 
The "Verey" light had risen ... on the air 
It hung glistening. . . . 

And he could not stay his hand 
From moving to the barbed wire's broken strand. 
A rifle cracked. 

He fell. 
Night waned. He was alone. A heavy shell 
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead. 
His wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled 
On to the glimmering ground. 
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound, 
Knowing, of course, he'd not see home again — 
Home, whose thought he put away. 

His men 
Whispered, "Where's Mister Gates?" "Out on the wire." 
"I'll get him," said one. . . . 

Dawn blinked and the fire 
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line. 
"Stand to!" 

Too late! "I'll get him." "Oh the swine, 
49 



SO COMRADES 

When we might get him in yet safe and whole!" 
"Corp'ral didn't see un fall out on patrol 
Or he'd a got un." "Ssssh". . . 

"No talking there." 
A whisper: "'A went down at the last flare." 
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked : their swish 
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish. 
No hope for him! 

His corporal, as one shamed, 
Vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed. 

Then Gates slowly saw the morn 
Break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn 
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass 
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass 
Of No-Man's Land. . . . 

And the tears came 
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame. 
He closed his eyes: he thought of home 
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come. . . 

The silent sun over the earth held sway, 
Occasional rifles cracked, and far away 
A heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone 
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone. 

"I must get back," said Gates aloud, and heaved 
At his body. But it lay bereaved 
Of any power. He could not wait till night. . . . 
And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight. 



COMRADES 5 1 

Then with a groan : 

"No luck ever. Well! I must die alone." 

Occasional rifles cracked. A cloud that shone, 
Gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone. . . . 
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play. 
Some one whistled, "Over the hills and far away." 
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun 
Burning his life before it was begun. . . . 

Suddenly he heard Corporal T'mmins' voice: "Now, then, 
'Urry up with that tea." 

"Hi Ginger!" "Bill." His men! 
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson ("the bard") 
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard 
Not to see them: Wilkinson, stubby grim, 
With his "No, sir," "Yes, sir," and the slim 
Simpson, "Indeed, sir?" [while it seemed he winked 
Because his smiling left eye always blinked] 
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blonde and wise, 
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes, 
And all the others . . . tunics that didn't fit. . . . 
A dozen different sorts of eyes. Oh, it 
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no: 
"I've got to die. I'll get to them. I'll go." 

Inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute, 
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute. . . . 
His head was hammering and his eyes were dim, 
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him 



52 COMRADES 

And freeze along his spine . . . then he'd lie still 
Before another effort of his will 
Took him one nearer yard. 

The parapet was reached. 

He could not rise to it. A look-out screeched, 

"Mr. Gates!" 

Three figures in one breath 

Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death; 

And Gates was lifted in. "Whois hit?" said he. 

"Timmins and Jones." "Why did they that for me? 

I'm gone already!" Gently they laid him prone 

And silently watched. 

He twitched. They heard him moan, 

"Why for me?" His eyes roamed round and none replied. 

"I see it was alone I should have died." 

They shook their heads. Then, "Is the doctor here?" 

"He's comin', sir, he's hurryin', no fear." 

"No good. . . . 

Lift me." They lifted him. 

He smiled and held his arms out to the dim, 

And in a moment passed beyond their ken, 

Hearing him whisper, "O my men, my men!" 

Robert Nichols. 
In Hospital, London, 
Autumn, 1915. 



XXIV 

The Star-shell 

(Loos) 

A STAR-SHELL holds the sky beyond 
Shell-shivered Loos, and drops 
In million sparkles on a pond 
That lies by Hulluch copse. 

A moment's brightness in the sky, 
To vanish at a breath, 
And die away, as soldiers die 
Upon the wastes of death. 

Patrick MacGill. 



53 



XXV 

Battle 

1. Noon 

IT is midday; the deep trench glares. . . „ 
A buzz and blaze of flies. . . . 
The hot wind puffs the giddy airs. . . . 
The great sun rakes the skies. 

No sound in all the stagnant trench 
Where forty standing men 
Endure the sweat and grit and stench, 
Like cattle in a pen. 






Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs 
Or twangs the whining wire, 
Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs 
As in hell's frying fire. 

From out a high, cool cloud descends 
An aeroplane's far moan, 

The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends. . . . 
The black speck travels on. 
54 



BATTLE 55 

And sweating, dizzied, isolate 

In the hot trench beneath, 

We bide the next shrewd move of fate 

Be it of life or death. 

2. Night Bombardment 

Softly in the silence the evening rain descends. . . . 
The soft wind lifts the rain-mist, flurries it, and spends 
Itself in mournful sighs, drifting from field to field, 
Soaking the draggled sprays which the low hedges wield 
As they labour in the wet and the load of the wind. 
The last light is dimming. Night comes on behind. 

I hear no sound but the wind and the rain, 
And trample of horses, loud and lost again 
Where the wagons in the mist rumble dimly on 
Bringing more shell. 

The last gleam is gone. 
It is not day or night; only the mists unroll 
And blind with their sorrow the sight of my soul. 
I hear the wind weeping in the hollow overhead: 
She goes searching for the forgotten dead 
Hidden in the hedges or trodden into muck 
Under the trenches or maybe limply stuck 
Somewhere in the branches of a high, lonely tree — 
He was a sniper once. They never found his body. 

I see the mist drifting. I hear the wind, the rain, 
And on my clammy face the oozed breath of the slain 



56 BATTLE 

Seems to be blowing. Almost I have heard 

In the shuddering drift the lost dead's last word: 

Go home, go home, go to my house, 

Knock at the door, knock hard, arouse 

My wife and the children — that you must do — 

What d' you say? — Tell the children too — 

Knock at the door, knock hard, and arouse 

The living. Say: the dead won't come back to this house. 

Oh . . . but it's cold — I soak in the rain — 

Shrapnel found me — I shan't go home again. 

No, not home again — the mourning voices trail 

Away into rain, into darkness . . . the pale 

Soughing of the night drifts on in between. 

The Voices were as if the dead had never been. 

melancholy heavens, O melancholy fields! 

The glad, full darkness grows complete and shields 
Me from your appeal. 

With a terrible delight 

1 hear far guns low like oxen, at the night. 

Flames disrupt the sky. The work is begun. 
"Action !" My guns crash, flame, rock, and stun 
Again and again. Soon the soughing night 
Is loud with their clamour and leaps with their light. 

The imperative chorus rises sonorous and fell : 
My heart glows lighted as by fires of hell, 



BATTLE 

Sharply I pass the terse orders down. 

The guns stun and rock. The hissing rain is blown 

Athwart the hurtling shell that shrilling, shrilling goes 

Away into the dark to burst a cloud of rose 

Over their trenches. 

A pause: I stand and see 
Lifting into the night like founts incessantly, 
The pistol-lights' pale spores upon the glimmering air. . . . 
Under them furrowed trenches empty, pallid, bare. . . . 
And rain snowing trenchward ghostly and white, 
O dead in the hedges, sleep ye well to-night! 

Robert Nichols. 



XXVI 

The Assault 

THE beating .of the guns grows louder. 
"Not long, boys, now." 
My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder ; 
Hurricanes grow 
As guns redouble their fire. 
Through the shaken periscope peeping 
I glimpse their wire: 
Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, 
Spouting like shocks of meeting waves. 
Death's fountains are playing, 
Shells like shrieking birds rush over; 
Crash and din rises higher. 
A stream of lead raves 

Over us from the left ... (we safe under cover!) 
Crash. Reverberation. Crash ! 
Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash. 
Black smoke drifting. The German line 
Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry 
Of our men, "Gah! yer swine, 
You're for it," die 
In a hurricane of shell. . . . 
58 



THE ASSAULT 59 

One cry; 

"We're comin' soon! look out!" 

There is opened hell 

Over there. Fragments fly, 

Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: 

Dust, smoke, thunder. A sudden bout 

Of machine-guns chattering. . . . 

And redoubled battering 

As if in fury at their daring. . . . 

No good staring. 

Time soon now . . . home . . . house on a sunlit hill. . . . 

Gone like a flickered page. 

Time soon now . . . zero . . . will engage . . . 

A sudden thrill. 

"Fix bayonets." 

Gods! we have our fill 

Of fear, hysteria, exultation, rage — 

Rage to kill. . . . 

My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter, 

Contracts tighter and tighter, 

Until I stifle with the will 

Long forged, now used — 

(Though utterly strained) 

O pounding heart, 

Baffled, confused, 



60 THE ASSAULT 

Heart panged, head singing dizzily pained — 
To do my part. 

Blindness a moment. Sick. 

There the men are. 

Bayonets ready: click! 

Time goes quick; 

A stumbled prayer . . . somehow a blazing star 

In a blue night . . . where? 

Again prayer. 

The tongue trips. Start: 

How's time? Soon now. Two minutes or less. 

The guns' fury mounting higher. 

Their utmost. I lift a silent hand. Unseen I bless 

Those hearts will follow me. 

And beautifully 

Now beautifully my will grips. 

Soul calm and round and filmed and white! 

A shout! "Men, no such order as retire!" 

I nod. 

The whistle's twixt my lips. . . . 

I catch 

A wan, worn smile at me. 

Dear men ! , 

The pale wrist-watch. . . . 

The quiet hand ticks on amid the din. 

The guns again 

Rise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust: 

Kill! Pound! Kill! Pound! Pound! 



THE ASSAULT 6l 

Now comes the thrust, 

My part . . . dizziness . . . will . . . but trust 

These men. The great guns rise. 

Their fury seems to burst the earth and skies! 

They— lift! 

Gather, heart, all thoughts that drift; 

Be steel, soul. 

Compress thyself 

Into a round, bright whole. 

I cannot speak. 

Time ! Time ! 

I hear my whistle shriek 
Between teeth set, 
I fling an arm up, 
Scramble up the grime 
Over the parapet! 

I'm up. Go on. 

Something meets us. 

Head down into the storm that greets us. 

A wail ! 

Lights. Blurr. Gone. 

On, on. Lead. Lead. Hail. 

Spatter. Whirr. Whirr. 



62 THE ASSAULT 

"Toward that patch of brown, 

Direction left." Bullets: a stream. 

Devouring thought crying in a dream; 

Men, crumpled, going down. . . . 

Go on. Go. 

Deafness, Numbness. The loudening tornado 

Bullets. Mud. Stumbling and skating. 

My voice's strangled shout: — 

"Steady pace, boys!" 

The still light: gladness. 

"Look, sir, look out! — " 

Ha! Ha! Bunched figures waiting. 

Revolver levelled: quick! 

Flick! Flick! 

Red as blood. 

Germans. Germans. 

Good! Oh, good! 



1916. 



Cool madness. 



Robert Nichols. 






Note. — (1) "Zero" is the hour agreed upon by the Staff when the 
infantry are to go over the parapet of the trench and advance to 
the attack. (2) Guns are said to "lift when, after pounding the 
front line of the enemy, they lengthen their range and set up a 
barrier of fire behind his front line to prevent supports moving 
up. Our infantry then advance. 



XXVII 

Light after Darkness 

ONCE more the Night, like some great dark drop-scene 
Eclipsing horrors for a brief entr'acte, 
Descends, lead-weighty. Now the space between, 
Fringed with the eager eyes of men, is racked 
By spark-tailed lights, curvetting far and high, 
Swift smoke-flecked coursers, raking the black sky. 

And as each sinks in ashes grey, one more 
Rises to fall, and so through all the hours 
They strive like petty empires by the score, 
Each confident of its success and powers, 
And, hovering at its zenith, each will show 
Pale, rigid faces, lying dead, below. 

There shall they lie, tainting the innocent air, 

Until the dawn, deep veiled in mournful grey, 

Sadly and quietly shall lay them bare, 

The broken heralds of a doleful day. 

E. Wyndham Tennant. 
Hulluch Road, 

October 1915. 



63 



XXVIII 

Birds in the Trenches 

E fearless birds that live and fly where men 
Can venture not and live, that even build 
Your nests where oft the searching shrapnel shrilled 
And conflict rattled like a serpent, when 
The hot guns thundered further, and from his den 
The little machine-gun spat, and men fell piled 
In long-swept lines, as when a scythe has thrilled, 
And tall corn tumbled ne'er to rise again. 

Ye slight ambassadors twixt foe and foe, 
Small parleyers of peace where no peace is, 
Sweet disregarders of man's miseries 
And his most murderous methods, winging slow 
About your perilous nests — we thank you, so 
Unconscious of sweet domesticities. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 






64 






XXIX 

To a Baby found paddling near 
the Lines 

HAIL! O Baby of the May 
In the bubbling river-bed, 
Playing where the cannon play, 
With the shrapnel overhead! 
Sparkling in and flashing out 
Through the eddies and the shallows, 
With your feet among the trout, 
And your head among the swallows ; 
While the wag-tails on the daisies 
Lead you in the minuet, 

Twinkling through the flow'ry mazes, 

Baby, do you quite forget 

That, with shrapnel overhead, 

Other babes are put to bed? 

Baby, may the buttercup, 
When you tumble, pick you up; 
If you fall beside the willow, 
Lilies rise to be your pillow! 
6s 



66 TO A BABY 

In the winter should you go 
Straying far without a rest, 
Down beneath the drifting snow 
May you be the mouse's guest; 
May the bull-frog be your Knight, 
And the tit your Templar true! 
May the fairy guide you right 
Wandering through a misty land, 
At the crossings of the dew, 
With the rainbow in her hand ! 
Should you fall from branches high 
And go tumbling down the sky, 
May the heron in the air 
Take you floating on his wings, 
And the cloudlets be your stair, 
Over palaces of kings: 
Riding high above the wold, 
Larks your sentinels shall be, 
Challenging with tongues of gold 
Those who try to cage the free! 



So, philosopher of May, 
With my blessing go your way! 
If you win such friends as these 
You need never have a care, 
Cannon you may safely tease, 
And may juggle, at your ease, 
With the whizzbang in the air: 



TO A BABY 67 

Though the world be full of sadness, 
You may still have fun and gladness, 
And be happy for a day, 
Playing where the cannon play. 

Herbert Asquith. 



XXX 

The Rear-guard 

(HlNDENBURG LlNE, APRIL, I917) 

GROPING along the tunnel step by step, 
He winked his prying torch with patching glare 
From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. 

Tins, bottles, boxes, shapes too vague to know, — 
A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; 
And he, exploring, fifty feet below 
The rosy gloom of battle overhead. 

Tripping, he grabbed the wall ; saw some one lie 
Humped and asleep, half-hidden by a rug; 
And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. 
"I'm looking for Headquarters." 
No reply. . . . 

"God blast your neck" (for days he'd had no sleep), 
"Get up and guide me through this stinking place." 
Then, with a savage kick at the silent heap, 
He flashed his beam across a livid face 

68 






THE REAR-GUARD 69 

Horribly glaring up ; and the eyes yet wore 

Agony dying hard ten days before; 

And twisted fingers clutched a blackening wound. 

Alone, he staggered on until he found 

Dawn's ghost, that filtered down a shafted stair 

To the dazed, muttering creatures underground, 

Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. 

At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, 

He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, 

Unloading hell behind him, step by step. 

Siegfried Sassoon. 



The Sea Affair 



XXXI 



The Old Way 



"I deeply regret to report the loss of H.M. ships. . . ." — Sir John 
Jellicoe's Despatch {"The Times," July Jth, 1916). 

THERE'S a sea that lies uncharted far beyond the 
setting sun, 
And a gallant fleet was sailing there whose fighting days 

are done, 
Sloop and galleon, brig and pinnace, all the rigs you never 

met, 
Fighting frigate, grave three-decker with their snowy can- 
vas set; 
Dozed and dreamed, when, on a sudden, ev'ry sail began 

to swell, 
For the breeze had spoken strangers, with a stirring tale to 

tell, 
And a thousand eager voices flung the challenge out to 

sea: 
"Come they hither in the old way, in the only way that's 

free?" 

And the flying breeze called softly: "In the old way, 
Through the winters and the waters of the North, 

73 



74 THE OLD WAY 

They have waited, ah the waiting! in the old way, 
Strong and patient, from the Pentlands to the Forth. 
There was fog to blind and baffle off the headlands, 
There were gales to beat the worst that ever blew, 
But they took it, as they found it, in the old way, 
And I know it often helped to think of you." 

'Twas a frigate, under stun-sails, as she gently gathered 

way 
Spoke in jerks, like all the frigates, who have little time 

to stay: 
"We'd to hurry, under Nelson, thank my timbers I was 

tough, 
For he worked us as he loved us, and he never had enough. 
Are the English mad as ever? Were the frigates just as 

few? 
(Will their sheets be always stranding, ere the rigging's 

rove anew?) 
Just as Saxon slow at starting, just as weirdly wont to win? 
Had they frigates out and watching? Did they pass the 

signals in?" 

And the laughing Breeze made answer: "In the old way; 
You should see the little cruisers spread and fly, 
Peering over the horizon, in the old way, 
And a seaplane up and wheeling in the sky. 
When the wireless snapped 'The enemy is sighted,' 
If his accents were comparatively new, 
Why, the sailor-men were cheering, in the old way, 
So I naturally smiled, and thought of you." 



THE OLD WAY 75 

Then a courtly voice and stately from a tall three-decker 

came — 
She'd the manners of a monarch and a story in her name: 
"We'd a winter gale at even, and my shrouds are aching 

yet, 
It was more than time for reefing when the upper sails were 

set. 
So we chased in woful weather, till we closed in failing light, 
Then we fought them, as we caught them, just as Hawke 

had bid us fight; 
And we swept the sea by sunrise, clear and free beyond a 

doubt. 
Was it thus the matter ended when the enemy was out?" 



Cried the Breeze: "They fought and followed in the 

old way, 
For they raced to make a record all the while, 
With a knot to veer and haul on, in the old way, 
That had never even met the measured mile — 
And the guns were making merry in the twilight. 
That the enemy was victor may be true, 
Still — he hurried into harbour — in the old way — 
And I wondered if he'd ever heard of you." 



Came a gruff and choking chuckle, and a craft as black as 

doom 
Lumbered laughing down to leeward, as the bravest gave 

her room. 



76 THE OLD WAY 

"Set 'un blazin', good your Lordships, for the tide be 

makin' strong, 
Proper breeze to fan a fireship, set 'un drivin' out along! 
'Tis the 'Torch,' wi' humble duty, from Lord Howard 

'board the 'Ark,' 
We'm a laughin'-stock to Brixham, but a terror after dark. 
Hold an' bilge a-nigh to burstin', pitch and sulphur, tar an' 

all, 
Was it so, my dear, they'm fashioned for my Lord High 

Admiral?" 

Cried the Breeze: "You'd hardly know it from the old 

way 
(Gloriana, did you waken at the fight?). 
Stricken shadows, scared and flying in the old way 
From the swift destroying spectres of the night, 
There were some that steamed and scattered south for 

safety, 
From the mocking western echo 'Where be tu?' 
There were some that — got the message — in the old way, 
And the flashes in the darkness spoke of you." 

There's a wondrous Golden Harbour, far beyond the set- 

ing sun, 
Where a gallant ship may anchor when her fighting days 

are done, 
Free from tempest, rock and battle, toil and tumult safely 

o'er, 
Where the breezes murmur softly and there's peace for 

evermore. 



THE OLD WAY 77 

They have climbed the last horizon, they are standing in 

from sea, 
And the Pilot makes the Haven where a ship is glad to be: 
Comes at last the glorious greeting, strangely new and ages 

old, 
See the sober grey is shining like the Tudor green and gold ! 

And the waiting jibs are hoisted, in the old way, 
As the guns begin to thunder down the line; 
Hear the silver trumpets calling, in the old way ! 
Over all the silken pennons float and shine. 
"Did you voyage all unspoken, small and lonely? 
Or with fame, the happy fortune of the few? 
So you win the Golden Harbour, in the old way, 
There's the old sea welcome waiting there for you." 

Ronald Hopwood. 



XXXII 

Song of the White Ensign 

THEY made an ('twas in eighteen Order in Council 
sixty-four) 
That gave me my proud position — the sign of a man-of- 
war, 
And there isn't a tropic island or a bay where the anchors 

hold 
But knows that I fly for Freedom and Honour worth more 
than gold. 

Tens of thousands pay homage, as they raise me with lov- 
ing hands 

And free my soul in the morning to the drums of a hun- 
dred bands; 

And thousands again salute me as the sun sinks down in 
the west, 

For my Lords have decreed that the sun and I go down 
together to rest. 

1 As the ensign is hoisted in the morning, the band plays the 
National Anthem and all officers and men on deck face the ensign 
and salute. As the ensign is hauled down at sunset, the bugles 
sound the "Sunset call" and all officers and men on deck face the 
ensign and salute. The white ensign is laid over the coffins of 
naval men during funerals. 

78 



SONG OF THE WHITE ENSIGN 79 

I flaunt my head in the breezes that the ice-bound Pole 
sends forth 

As my halliards curse and chatter in the hail-swept frozen 
North ; 

And there's never an ocean steamer or his mate with t'gal- 
lant yard 

But dip their colours in passing to show me their due re- 
gard. 



I appeared off the Rio de Oro and secured the Atlantic 

trade, 1 
I showed off the Isle of Fernandez and saved the Pacific 

from raid ; 2 
From barren Perim to Delgado, there isn't a creek or bay s 
But knows of the power behind me and the price that my 

enemies pay. 



I drooped in the Karun River, but my head wasn't hung for 

shame ; 
I prayed for the winds to gather so the Arabs might chant 

my fame ; 4 
From Java to Gulf of Aden, from Frisco to Sea of Timor, 
There's joy in the hearts of thousands when my colours 

are seen off shore. 



1 H.M.S. Highflyer defeated Kaiser Wilhelm. 

2 Sinking of the Dresden. 

3 K'onigsberg, etc. * Mesopotamia. 



80 SONG OF THE WHITE ENSIGN 

They scarred me and pocked my beauty with the bursts of 

their well-aimed shell, 
When they found me showing my colour to the westward 

of Coronel; 
I hated being torn and tattered; they gave me no time to 

mend, 
But they saw my honour untarnished, for my halliards 

held to the end. 



I covered the sleeping corpses, for they slept there for my 
sake, 

And I tethered myself to the shingle, till my country bade 
me wake; 

Then I once more danced to the wind's tune and the South- 
ern oceans knew 

That the men and the ships they carried were safer be- 
cause I flew. 



I strained at my bow-taut halliards from Messina to Cape 

Matapan ; x 
It wasn't the wind that frayed me, but the speed of the 

ships in the van; 
And for many a long day after, I flew midst despair and 

loss, 
But none disputed the honour of my jack and my great 

red cross. 2 

1 Chase of the Goeben. 2 Dardanelles. 



SONG OF THE WHITE ENSIGN 8l 

Tens of thousands revile me and pray for my colours to 

fade, 
But I've covered ten thousand corpses and I'll fly till the 

debt is paid; 
For thousands will fight for my honour, so long as my 

halliards last, 
And if my halliards are shattered, fight on — when I'm 

nailed to the mast. 

William M. James. 



XXXIII 

Undying Days 

January 24TH, 19 15 
June ist, 1794, 1813, 1916 

FROM the "George" in Portsmouth High Street north 
to the Scottish shore 
The post-chaise carried the message; 'twas in seventeen 

ninety-four ; 
Men quaffed their ale on the village green and danced to 

the fiddler's tune, 
And talked of Howe and the men he led on the glorious 
First of June. 

They sang and they danced, for they'd lost all fear 
Of losing their maids and their baccy and beer. 

From Plymouth Hoe to Yeovil town, through Reading to 

Harrow Hill 
Just twenty-nine years after, men called for their host to 

fill 
Their tankards up with English ale and the fiddler to scrape 

a tune, 
And talked of Broke and the Shannon s tars and the Battle 

of First of June. 

82 



UNDYING DAYS 83 

They danced and they toasted the frigate's crew, 
And sang of the guns and the men in blue. 

Once more from Plymouth and Portsmouth towns the news 

has spread like fire, 
Instead of the chaise and its sweating team, it's carried by 

miles of wire ; 
Though beer is scarce and tobacco dear, and no fiddlers to 

give a tune, 
Men talk of the fleet that held the field, and prayed for a 

"First of June." 

No song and no dance, but a quiet content 

For the news that their great grey ships have sent. 

Merchants sailed from the Port of Leith and passed by the 
Head of Skaw, 

And the sea to them looked all the same from St. Abb's to 
the Danish shore; 

But the skippers knew of the Fisher Bank and the fifteen- 
fathom patch ; 

You'd have heard of it too in Jutland, when they talked 
of the "last night's catch." 

They worked and fished on the slippery decks 
With never a thought of gun-swept wrecks. 

Travellers sailed from the Port of Hull to land on Stavanger 

pier, 
And they never looked at the soundings, or thought of the 

course to steer; 



84 UNDYING DAYS 

But the skippers knew of the Dogger Bank where the lead 

can "find" at eight; 
You'd have heard of it too at Grimsby town, when the 
boats were a few days late. 

The packers and fishwives knew it well, 

For that's where their men got the fish to sell. 



But now the merchants from Port of Leith will ask for the 
shallow patch, 

And the Jutland men will haul their nets, fearing for what 
they'll catch; 

Talking ever of homes that shook when the great grey ves- 
sels fought 

And a fleet sent out on an enterprise, crippled and back 
in port. 

They'll marvel at men who'll struggle and drown 
For the sake of the maids in an East Coast town. 



The travellers, too, from the Port of Hull will ask for the 

Dogger Bank, 
And think of the day the great ships met, and the place 

where the Bliicher sank; 
And talk of the deeds of sailor folk who fought for their 

homes and trade, 
And an enemy baffled by English strength, turned from an 

East Coast raid. 

They'll know they travel because men fought 
And skilfully handled what strong men wrought. 



UNDYING DAYS 85 

Thousands who never have seen the sea, or the great grey 

steel-clad forms, 
Or the lithe black shapes of the smaller craft, or the scud 

of the North Sea storms, 
Will talk of armour and shells and guns, and the battle 

by Horn Reef light, 
And of sunken ships and of brave deeds done in the hours 
of a short May night. 

No song and no dance! — but they've lost the fear 
Of losing their maids and their baccy and beer. 

William M. James. 



XXXIV 

To a Naval Cadet 

Lost in H.M.S. "Hogue," North Sea, August, 1914 

HERO of tender age, 
Scarce had you turned a page 
Of the fair Book of Life, ere it was ended: 
As bud by autumn nipped, 
Closed Youth's sweet manuscript, 
Dust once again to dust descended. 

Called from the sheltered peace 

Of naval colleges, 

True to the training and the breed of you, 

Putting your games aside, 

You thrilled with boyish pride 

To think that now your Motherland had need of you. 

Not yours to know delight 
In the keen, hard-fought fight, 
The shock of battle and the battle's thunder; 
But suddenly to feel 
Deep, deep beneath the keel, 
The vital blow that rives the ship asunder. 

86 



TO A NAVAL CADET 87 

Well might a soul more staid 

Than yours have been afraid 

In whom th' encroaching sea no fear could waken, 

So to your end you passed 

Steadfast unto the last, 

Bearing your boyhood's courage still unshaken. 

But ere the icy breath 

Of that grim spectre Death 

Had any power to affright or pain you, 

Hovered around your head 

Shades of our Greater Dead — 

I like to think — to welcome and sustain you. 

For all your tender years, 

Amidst your mother's tears 

Still must there be one glowing thought of pride for her, 

And those less fortunate 

Must envy you your fate 

So to have served your Land and to have died for her. 

Noel F. M. Corbett. 



XXXV 



Lines written somewhere in the 
North Sea 



T 



|HE laggard hours drift slowly by; while silver mist- 
wreaths veil the sky 

And iron coast whereon, flung high, the North Sea breaks in 
foam. 

When flame the pallid Northern Lights on seeming age- 
long winter nights, 

Then oftentimes for our delight God sends a dream of Home. 

And once again we know the peace of little red-roofed vil- 
lages 

That nestle close in some deep crease amid the rolling 
wealds 

That northward, eastward, southward sweep, fragrant with 
thyme and flecked with sheep, 

To where the corn is standing deep above the ripening fields. 

And once again in that fair dream I see the sibilant, swift 
stream — 

Now gloomy-green and now agleam — that flows by Fur- 
nace Mill, 

88 



LINES WRITTEN SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTH SEA 8-' 

And hear the plover's plaintive cry above the common at 

Holtye, 
When redly glows the dusky sky and all the woods are still. 

Oh, I remember as of old, the copse aflame with russet 
gold, 

The sweet half-rotten scent of mould, the while I stand and 
hark 

To unseen woodland life that stirs before the clamant game- 
keepers, 

Till, sudden, out a pheasant whirrs to cries of "Mark cock, 
mark!" 

And there are aged inns that sell the mellow, cool October 
ale, 

What time one tells an oft-told tale around the friendly 
fires, 

Until the clock with muffled chime asserts that it is clos- 
ing time, 

And o'er the fields now white with rime the company re- 
tires. 

How long ago and far it seems, this peaceful country of 

our dreams, 
Of fruitful fields and purling streams — the England that 

we know: 
Who holds within her sea-girt ring all that we love, and 

love can bring; 
Ah, Life were but a little thing to give to keep her so! 

Noel F. M. Corbett. 



XXXVI 

Battle of the Falkland Isles 

THE Isle Juan Fernandez off Valparaiso Bay, 
'Twas there that Cradock sought 
The action that he fought — 
For he said: "To run from numbers is not our English 
way, 
Nor do we question why 
We are fore-ordained to die." 
Though his guns were scooping water and his tops were 
blind with spray. 



In the red light of the sunset his ships went down in flame, 
He and his brave men 
Were never seen again, 
And Von Spee he stroked his beard, and said: "Those 
Englishmen are game, 
But their dispositions are 
More glorious than war; 
Those that greyhounds set on mastiffs are surely much to 
blame." 

90 



BATTLE OF THE FALKLAND ISLES 91 

Then the Board of Admiralty to Sir Doveton Sturdee said : 

"Take a proper naval force 

And steer a sou'west course, 
And show the world that England is still a Power to dread." 

Like scorpions and whips 

Was vengeance to his ships, 
And Cradock's guiding spirit flew before their line ahead. 

Through tropic seas they shore like a meteor through the 
sky, 

And the dolphins in their chase 

Grew weary of the race; 
The swift grey-pinioned albatross behind them could not 

fly, 

And they never paused to rest 
Upon the ocean's breast 
Till their southern shadows lengthened and the Southern 
Cross rode high. 

Then Sir Doveton Sturdee said in his flagship captain's 
ear: 
"By yon kelp and brembasteen 
'Tis the Falkland Isles, I ween, 
Those mollymauks and velvet-sleeves they signal land is 
near, 
Give your consorts all the sign 
To swing out into line, 
And keep good watch 'twixt ship and ship till Graf von 
Spee appear." 



92 BATTLE OF THE FALKLAND ISLES 

The Germans like grey shadows came stealing round the 
Horn, 
Or as a wolf-pack prowls 
With blood upon its jowls, 
Their sides were pocked with gun-shots and their guns were 
battle-worn, 
And their colliers down the wind 
Like jackals trailed behind, 
'Twas thus they met our cruisers on a bright December 
morn. 

Like South Atlantic rollers half a mile from crest to crest, 

Breaking on basalt rocks 

In thunderous battle-shocks, 
So our heavy British metal put their armour to the test. 

And the Germans hurried north, 

As our lightnings issued forth, 
But our battle-line closed round them like a sickle east and 
west. 

Each ship was as a pillar of grey smoke on the sea, 
Or mists upon a fen, 
Till they burst forth again 
From their wraiths of battle-vapour by wind and speed 
made free; 
Three hours the action sped, 
Till, plunging by the head, 
The Scharnhorst drowned the pennant of Admiral von 
Spee. 



BATTLE OF THE FALKLAND ISLES 93 

At the end of two hours more her sister ship went down 

Beneath the bubbling wave, 

The Gneisenau found her grave, 
And Niirnberg and Leipzig, those cities of renown, 

Their cruiser god-sons, too, 

Were both pierced through and through, 
There was but one of all five ships our gunners did not 
drown. 

'Twas thus that Cradocjc died, 'twas thus Von Spee was 
slain, 
'Twas thus that Sturdee paid 
The score those Germans made, 
'Twas thus St. George's Ensign was laundered white again, 
Save the Red Cross over all 
The graves of those who fall, 
That England as of yore may be Mistress of the Main. 

I. C. 



XXXVII 

Guns at Sea 

LET me get back to the guns again, I hear them calling 
me, 
And all I ask is my own ship, and the surge of the open sea, 
In the long, dark nights, when the stars are out, and the 

clean salt breezes blow, 
And the land's foul ways are half forgot, like nightmare, 

and I know 
That the world is good, and life worth while, and man's 

real work to do, 
In the final test, in Nature's school, to see which of us 

rings true. 
On shore, in peace, men cheat and lie — but you can't do 

that at sea, 
For the sea is strong; if your work is weak, vain is the 

weakling's plea 
Of a "first offence" or "I'm only young," or "It shall not 

happen again," 
For the sea finds out your weakness, and writes its lesson 

plain. 
"The liar, the slave, the slum-bred cur — let them stay 

ashore, say I, 

94 



GUNS AT SEA 95 

"For, mark it well, if they come to me, I break them and 

they die. 
The land is kind to a soul unsound; I find and probe the 

flaw, 
For I am the tears of eternity that rock to eternal law." 

I love the touch of the clean salt spray on my hands and 

hair and face, 
I love to feel the long ship leap, when she feels the sea's 

embrace, 
While down below is the straining hull, o'erhead the gulls 

and clouds, 
And the clean wind comes 'cross the vast sea space, and 

sings its song in the shrouds. 
But now in my dreams, besides the sounds one always hears 

at sea, 
I hear the mutter of distant guns, which call and call to 

me, 
Singing: "Come! The day is here for which you have 

waited long." 
And women's tears, and craven fears, are drowned in that 

monstrous song. 
So whatever the future hold in store, I feel that I must 

go, 
To where, thro' the shattering roar, I hear a voice that 

whispers low: 
"The craven, the weak, the man with nerves, from me they 

must keep away, 
Or a dreadful price in shattered nerves, and broken health 

they pay. 



96 GUNS AT SEA 

But send me the man who is calm and strong, in the face of 
my roaring blast, 

He shall tested be in my mighty fires, and if he shall live 
at the last, 

He can go to his toome, his friends, his kin, to his life e'er 
war began, 

With a new-found soul, and a new-found strength, know- 
ing himself a man." 

Imtarfa. 



XXXVIII 

News of Jutland 

June 3rd, 1916 

(On June 3, 1916, when the news of our sad losses in our first 
great naval battle off the Jutland Bank had just come to hand, 
I went fishing with a sailor in the Naval Reserve. The following 
lines are, almost word for word, a transcript of his talk.) 

THE news had flashed throughout the land, 
The night had dropped in dread — 
What would the morrow's sunrise tell 

Of England's mighty dead? 
What homes were wrecked ? What hearts were doomed 
To bleed in sorrow's school? 

At early morn I sought my friend, 
The fisherman of Poole. 

He waited there beside the steps: 

The boat rocked just below: 
"You're ready, m'm? The morning's fine! 

I thought as how you'd go! 
I dug the bait an hour agone — 

We calls 'em 'lug-worms' here. 
The news is grave? Aye, so I've heard! 

Step in ! Your skirt is clear. 
97 



98 NEWS OF JUTLAND 

"My brothers? Any news, you ask? 

No, m'm ! Nor like to be 
A fortnight yet! Maybe they're both 

Asleep beneath the sea! 
I saw 'em start two years agone 

Next August — and I says 
We'll see 'em back by Christmas time — 

But we don't know God's ways! 

"I'll pull her round the fishing-boats! 

The Pollys lying there! 
D'you see her, m'm? The prettiest smack 

For weather foul or fair! 
It's just the ways they've builded her 

As seems to make her feel 
Alive! She's fifty sovereigns' worth 

O' lead along her keel. 

"Fine men my brothers war — I'll tie 

Her up against this boom! 
Don't fear to move free! This here boat 

Is built with lots o' room! 
You're safe with Jacob Matthews, m'm! 

He's ne'er been called a fool 
By any of the fisher-folk 

As lives in little Poole ! 

"How many left? Well, maybe half; 

They've gone off one by one. 
It's likely I'll be gone myself 

Afore the war is done, 



NEWS OF JUTLAND 99 

Attested just a month agone, 

And passed for fit and sound — 
It's shallow here for flat-fish, m'm, 

The boat's well-nigh aground. 

"I'll throw your line out — that'll do! 

Aye, fights on sea are grave! 
There ain't no Red Cross people there 

To lift you off the wave! 
There ain't no 'cover' you can take, 

No places to lie down! 
You got to go — wi' red-hot shells 

Just helping you to drown! 

"It minds me of a night we men 

Had got the life-boat out. 
They'd 'phoned us up! And off we pulled 

With many a cheer and shout! 
We rowed her hard up to the wind, 

And clear the moonlight shone — 
But when we reached — you see, just there — 

Both ship and crew were gone! 

"We cruised around for half an hour! 

Ah, m'm, our hearts was sore! 
We'd looked to throw the line to them, 

And bring 'em safe to shore! 
Aye! these blue waves ha' swallowed up 

More finer men than me! 
But we've been always fisher-folk, 

And we can't fear the sea! 



100 NEWS OF JUTLAND 

"Why, there's a catch! Aye, pull it in! 

'Tis on your second hook! 
Well, that's as odd a little fish 

As e'er a line ha' took! 
I've ne'er seen nothing like it, m'm — 

Don't touch it wi' your hand — 
These strange 'uns prick like poison, m'm, 

Sometimes — you understand ? 

"I'll take it off! It won't hurt me! 

You wonder what it's called? 
I couldn't say! The rummest thing 

That ever yet was hauled! 
A farthing's worth o' queerness, m'm, 

I'd name it if 'twas priced! 
A young John Dory? No — they bears 

The marks o' Jesus Christ. 

"You'll see His fingers and His thumb! 

Where are they? Well, a bit 
Beyond the gills — look! Here's the place, 

Just where I'm holding it! 
So this ain't no John Dory, m'm! 

I'll put it safe away! 
You'll tell your friends you pulled it from 

The bottom o' Poole Bay! 

" 'Twas better than a submarine? 

There ain't such devils here! 
We've got the North Sea trawlers down, 

They keeps the harbour clear ! 



NEWS OF JUTLAND IOI 

You saw a heap o' tangled wire 

A-lyin' on the quay? 
And thought as they'd just hauled it up? 

Aye, m'm! That's how 'twould be. 

"We're what they calls a 'Naval Base' 

Since this here war abroke! 
You seen it up? Aye, yonder there! 

'Tis hard for fisher-folk! 
We gets our catches in the night! 

But we mayn't leave the Bay 
Save when the sun is on the sea — 

You don't catch much by day! 

"But we've our bit to bear, as much 

As richer men nor we. 
We got to get a 'permit' now 

To take our nets to sea. 
We starts at dawn — if tides is right — 

And, when the sun be gone, 
Unless we lie inside the booms 

We'd like be fired upon! 

"You want to see the mack'rel shoals? 

They come in black as — see — 
Yon house that's tarred from roof to floor 

Just there, beside the quay! 
My smack's up now by Christchurch steps, 

I've got my 'permit' signed! 
I'll take you out o' Thursday next 

If so be you've a mind? 



102 NEWS OF JUTLAND 

I shan't be gone? Not yet! I waits 

Until I gets the call! — 
If you'll come out, m'm, with the nets, 

I'll promise you a haul! 
You're safe with Jacob Matthews, m'm! 

He's ne'er been called a fool 
By any of the fisher-folk 

The war has left in Poole!" 

Roma White. 



JVar in the Air 



XXXIX 

Eyes in the Air 

OUR guns are a league behind us, our target a mile 
below, 
And there's never a cloud to blind us from the haunts of 

our lurking foe — 
Sunk pit whence his shrapnel tore us, support-trench crest 

concealed, 
As clear as the charts before us, his ramparts lie revealed. 
His panicked watchers spy us, a droning threat in the void; 
Their whistling shells outfly us — puff upon puff, deployed 
Across the green beneath us, across the flanking grey, 
In fume and fire to sheath us and baulk us of our prey. 
Before, beyond, above her, 
Their iron web is spun: 
Flicked but unsnared we hover, 
Edged planes against the sun: 
Eyes in the air above his lair, 
The hawks that guide the gun! 

No word from earth may reach us, save, white against the 

ground, 

The strips outspread to teach us whose ears are deaf to 

sound : 

105 



106 EYES IN THE AIR 

But down the winds that sear us, athwart our engine's 

shriek, 
We send — and know they hear us, the ranging guns we 

speak. 
Our visored eyeballs show us their answering pennant, 

broke 
Eight thousand feet below us, a whorl of flame-stabbed 

smoke — 
The burst that hangs to guide us, while numbed gloved 

fingers tap 
From wireless key beside us the circles of the map. 
Line — target — short or over — 

Come, plain as clock hands run, 
Words from the birds that hover, 

Unblinded, tail to sun; 
Words out of air to range them fair, 
From hawks that guide the gun! 

Your flying shells have failed you, your landward guns are 

dumb: 
Since earth hath naught availed you, these skies be open! 

Come, 
Where, wild to meet and mate you, flame in their beaks for 

breath, 
Black doves! the white hawks wait you on the wind-tossed 

boughs of death. 
These boughs be cold without you, our hearts are hot for 

this, 
Our wings shall beat about you, our scorching breath shall 

kiss; 



EYES IN THE AIR 107 

Till, fraught with that we gave you, fulfilled of our desire, 
You bank — too late to save you from biting beaks of fire — 
Turn sideways from your lover, 
Shudder and swerve and run, 
Tilt ; stagger ; and plunge over 

Ablaze against the sun: 
Doves dead in air, who clomb to dare 
The hawks that guide the gun! 

Gilbert Frankau. 



XL 

Command of the Air 

A THOUSAND years between the sun and sea 
Britannia held her court of liberty, 
And cradled heroes in the questing waves 
That were for lesser men but wandering graves. 

Then did the British airman's sea-born skill 
Teach wood and metal to foresee his will ; 
In every cog and joint his spirit stirred; 
The Thing possessed was man as well as bird. 

A falcon among timorous fowl he flies, 
And bears Britannia's battle to the skies; 
Vainly the Hun seeks covert in a cloud — 
The clinging mist is made his ghostly shroud. 

Thus at the ringing gates of heaven's glory 

Begin new chapters of our island-story 

And clarion voices of the void declare: 

"She who has ruled the sea shall rule the air." 

O. 



108 



XLI 

A Song of the Plane 

THIS is the song of the Plane — 
The creaking, shrieking plane, 
The throbbing, sobbing plane, 
And the moaning, groaning wires: — 
The engine — missing again! 
One cylinder never fires! 

Hey ho! for the Plane! 

This is the song of the Man — 

The driving, striving man, 
The chosen, frozen man : — 
The pilot, the man-at-the-wheel, 
Whose limit is all that he can, 
And beyond, if the need is real! 
Hey ho! for the Man! 

This is the song of the Gun — 

The muttering, stuttering gun, 
The maddening, gladdening gun: — 
That chuckles with evil glee 

At the last, long dive of the Hun, 
With its end in eternity! 

Hey ho ! for the Gun ! 
109 



IIO A SONG OF THE PLANE 

This is the song of the Air — 
The lifting, drifting air, 
The eddying, steadying air, 
The wine of its limitless space, 

May it nerve us at last to dare 
Even death with undaunted face! 
Hey ho! for the Air. 

Gordon Alchin. 



XLII 

Two Pictures 

DAWN. . . . 
And the dewy plain 
Awakes to life and sound — 
Where on the flying-ground 
The ghostly hangars blaze with lights again. 
The giant birds of prey 

Creep forth to a new day, 
And one by one, 
As morning gilds the dome, 
Leave the grey aerodrome — 
The day's begun. 



Dusk. . . . 

And the vanish'd sun 

Still streaks the evening skies: 

Below, the prone earth lies 

Darkened, wherever warring Night has won. 
The 'planes, returning, show 

Deep black in the afterglow, 
IH 



112 TWO PICTURES 

And one by one 

Drop down from the higher airs, 
— Down, down the invisible stairs — 
The day is done. 

Gordon Alchin. 



XLIII 

Per Ardua ad Astra 

FOR every soul 
That's claimed by the outraged wind, 
Humanity, take toll 
In fuller knowledge of the world behind 
The dawn-mist and the aery eventide — 
In greater skill the paths of heaven to ride. 

For every life — 

God knows the price we've paid for sov'ranty — 
For every life 

Let Man exact the full indemnity: 

That unborn men secure may ride at ease 
The labyrinthine channels of the breeze. 

Gordon Alchin. 



"3 



XLIV 

Reconnaissance 

I JOURNEYED to the east, 
Rolled on the surgent airs of autumn days: 
Below, the earth lay creased 
With myriad meadows in the morning haze. 

Far off, where lay the sea, 
A silvered mirror beckoned to my bent, 

And, moving orderly, 
The high cloud-armies marched magnificent. 

Some menace in the sky, 
Some quick alarm did wake me as I sped: 

At once, unwarningly 
Streamed out repeated death, from one that fled 

Headlong before my turn — 
But, unavoiding of the answering blast, 

Checked sudden, fell astern — 
And unmolested fared I to the last. 

Gordon Alchin. 



114 



XLV 

The Flight to Flanders 

DOES he know the road to Flanders, does he know 
the criss-cross tracks 
With the row of sturdy hangars at the end? 
Does he know that shady corner where, the job done, we 

relax 
To the music of the engines round the bend? 

It is here that he is coming with his gun and battle 'plane 
To the little aerodrome at — well, you know! 
To a wooden hut abutting on a quiet country lane, 
For he's ordered overseas and he must go. 

Has he seen those leagues of trenches, the traverses steep 

and stark, 
High over which the British pilots ride? 
Does he know the fear of flying miles to eastward of his 

mark 
When his only map has vanished over-side? 

It is there that he is going, and it takes a deal of doing, 
There are many things he really ought to know; 
And there isn't time to swot 'em if a Fokker he's pur- 
suing, 
For he's ordered overseas and he must go. 

"5 



Il6 THE FLIGHT TO FLANDERS 

Does he know that ruined town, that old of renown? 

Has he heard the crack of Archie bursting near? 

Has he known that ghastly moment when your engine lets 
you down? 

Has he ever had that feeling known as fear? 

It's to Flanders he is going with a brand-new aeroplane 

To take the place of one that's dropped below, 

To fly and fight and photo mid the storms of wind and 

rain, 
For he's ordered overseas and he must go. 

Then the hangar door flies open and the engine starts its roar, 
And the pilot gives the signal with his hand; 
As he rises over England he looks back upon the shore, 
For the Lord alone knows where he's going to land. 

Now the plane begins to gather speed, completing lap on 

lap, 
Till, after diving down and skimming low, 
They're off to shattered Flanders, by the compass and the 

map — 
They were ordered overseas and had to go. 

Lessel Hutcheon. 



XLVI 

The Death of the Zeppelin 

A FALSE, false night! Across the sightless sky 
Passed and repassed, again and yet again, 
A many-flickering smile of irony, 
The hieroglyphic of an evil thought. 
A few pale stars glistened like drops of sweat 
On the brow o' the east. . . . There was no wind — 
The wind that was not whispered in the ear 
Strange, crimson syllables of gathering doom ; 
Dread, flaming obsequies were in the eye 
Before the fiery pencil traced them out; 
And still the omens held, and still was heard 
The voice of silence, the unspoken word. 



At last! At last the winged Worm draws near, 
The vulture-ship that dare not voyage by day, 
The man-made Dinosaur that haunts the night, 
The beast-like creature of a bestial mind, 
Which preys by choice on small and innocent lives, 
Drinking its blood well soothed with mothers' milk- 
117 



Il8 THE DEATH OF THE ZEPPELIN 

Whose reeking weapons scandalise the stars, 

And do most foully wrong the sanctuary 

Of God's tempestuous angels, the bright winds, 

That haste about the globe at His behest. 

Above the violet verge of the low east 

This blind and obscene head of frightfulness 

Was suddenly thrust. We marked its course afar 

By dull pulsations of the eager guns, 

The grey, lean warders of far-listening London; 

By bursts of shell-fire, mimic Leonids, 

Flame-petal'd stars all blossoming blood-red. 

The harassed Worm sought covert in a cloud 

Which, soon disparted, gave him for a prey 

To the implacable airman hovering near 

(His battle-plane was part of him that hour; 

In every cog and joint his valour moved, 

The thing possessed was man as well as bird) 

Who pierced his bowels with a fiery bolt. 

The Monster writhed in self-engendered flames 

Which brake forth in the likeness of a rose, 

A rose-white passion in the timeless night, 

A torch of hell brandished at heaven's gate, 

A piercing wonder in the million eyes 

Of waking London. ... At last he dropped, 

A sombre coal of fading crimson fire, 

Into his burial-place, a field defiled. 

And then, but not till then, arose the cry, 

Prolonged, unpitying, a cordite cheer 

Of the old valiant city, stark as Time, 

Which wills not mercy for the merciless. 



THE DEATH OF THE ZEPPELIN 1 19 

Beyond the storied stream a bower of trees 
Caught it and cast it back, through all their leaves 
Thrilled with a vocal joy of vengeance due, 
Paid but in part, which shall be paid in full. 

O. 



In Memoriam 



XL VI I 

The Last Salute 

H. S. G., Ypres, 1916 

IN a far field, away from England, lies 
A boy I friended with a care like love ; 
All day the wide earth aches, the keen wind cries, 
The melancholy clouds drive on above. 

There, separate from him by a little span 
Two eagle cousins, generous, reckless, free, 

Two Grenfells, lie, and my boy is made man, 
One with these elder knights of chivalry. 

Boy, who expected not this dreadful day, 
Yet leaped, a soldier, at the sudden call, 

Drank as your fathers, deeper though than they, 
The soldier's cup of anguish, blood, and gall. 

Not now as friend, but as a soldier, I 

Salute you fallen. For the soldier's name 

Our greatest honour is, if worthily 

These wayward hearts assume and bear the same: 



123 



124 THE LAST SALUTE 

The Soldier's is a name none recognise 

Saving his fellows. Deeds are all his flower. 

He lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies, 
And if not vainly spent, this is his dower. 

The Soldier is the Martyr of a nation, 
Expresses but is subject to its will, 

His is the Pride ennobles Resignation 
As his the rebel Spirit-to-fulfil. 

Anonymous, he takes his country's name, 
Becomes its blindest vassal — though its lord 

By force of arms — its shame is called his shame, 
As its the glory gathered by his sword. 

Lonely he is : he has nor friend nor lover, 

Sith in his body he is dedicate. . . . 
His comrades only share his life and offer 

Their further deeds to one more heart oblate. 

Living, he's made an "Argument Beyond" 

For others' peace ; but when hot wars have birth, 

For all his brothers' safety he is bond 
To Fate or Whatsoever sways this Earth. 

Dying, his mangled body, to inter it, 

He doth bequeath him into comrade hands, 

His soul he renders to some Captain Spirit 

That knows, admires, pities, and understands! 



THE LAST SALUTE 125 

All this you knew by that which doth reside 

Deeper than learning; by apprehension 
Of ancient, dark, and melancholy pride; 

You were a Soldier true and died as one! . . . 

All day the long wind cries, the clouds unroll, 
But to the cloud and wind I cry, "Be still!" 

What need of comfort has the heroic soul? 
What soldier finds a soldier's grave is chill? 

Robert Nichols. 



XLVIII 

A Dirge 

|HOU art no longer here, 

No longer shall we see thy face, 
But, in that other place, 
Where may be heard 
The roar of the world rushing down the wantways of the 

stars ; 
And the silver bars 
Of heaven's gate 
Shine soft and clear: 
Thou mayest wait. 

No longer shall we see 

Thee walking in the crowded streets, 

But where the ocean of the Future beats 

Against the flood-gates of the Present, swirling to this earth, 

Another birth 

Thou mayest have; 

Another Arcady 

May thee receive. 

Not here thou dost remain, 

Thou art gone far away, 

126 



A DIRGE 127 

Where, at the portals of the day, 

The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng, 

While Time looks on, 
And seraphs stand 
Choiring an endless strain 
On either hand. 

Thou canst return no more; 

Not as the happy time of spring 

Comes after winter burgeoning 

On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art dead. 

Our tears we shed 

In vain, for thou 

Dost pace another shore, 

Untroubled now. 

Victor Perowne. 



I 



XLIX 

R. B. 

T was April we left Lemnos, shining sea and snow-white 
camp, 
Passing onward into darkness. Lemnos shone a golden 

lamp, 
As a low harp tells of thunder, so the lovely Lemnos air 
Whispered of the dawn and battle; and we left a com- 
rade there. 

He who sang of dawn and evening, English glades and 

light of Greece, 
Changed his dreaming into sleeping, left his sword to rest 

in peace. 
Left his visions of the springtime, Holy Grail and Golden 

Fleece, 
Took the leave that has no ending, till the waves of Lemnos 

cease. 

There will be enough recorders ere this fight of ours be 

done, 

And the deeds of men made little, swiftly cheapened one 

by one; 

138 



R. B. 129 

Bitter loss his golden harpstrings and the treasure of his 

youth ; 
Gallant foe and friend may mourn him, for he sang the 

knightly truth. 

Joy was his in his clear singing, clean as is the swimmer's 
joy; 

Strong the wine he drank of battle, fierce as that they 
poured in Troy. 

Swift the shadows steal from Athos, but his soul was morn- 
ing-swift, 

Greek and English he made music, caught the cloud- 
thoughts we let drift. 

Sleep you well, you rainbow comrade, where the wind and 

light is strong, 
Overhead and high above you, let the lark take up your 

song. 
Something of your singing lingers, for the men like me who 

pass, 
Till all singing ends in sighing, in the sighing of the grass. 

Aubrey Herbert. 



L 

To Certain Comrades 

(E. S. AND J. H.) 

IVING we loved you, yet withheld our praises 
Before your faces. 

And though our spirits had you high in honour! 
After the English manner, 

We said no word. Yet as such comrades would, 
You understood. 

Such friendship is not touched by death's disaster, 
But stands the faster. 

And all the shocks and trials of time cannot 
Shake it one jot. 

Beside the fire at night some far December 
We shall remember 

And tell men unbegotten as yet the story 
Of your sad glory. 

130 



TO CERTAIN COMRADES 131 

Of your plain strength, your truth of heart, your splendid 
Coolness — all ended. . . . 

All ended! Yet the aching hearts of lovers 
Joy over-covers; 

Glad in their sorrow, hoping that if they must 
Come to the dust, 

An ending such as yours may be their portion 
And great good fortune. 

That if we may not live to serve in peace 
England — watching increase — 

Then death with you, honoured and swift and high, 
And so — Not Die. 

Ivor Gurney. 



LI 

Ode to a Young Man 

Who Died of Wounds in Flanders, January 19 15 
IN MEMORIAM R. W. R. G. 

CAN it be true that thou art dead 
In the hour of thy youth, in the day of thy strength ? 
Must I believe thy soul has fled 
Through heaven's length? 



A scholar wast thou, learn'd in lore ; 

Poet was written in thine eyes. 
Thou ne'er wast meant for bloody war 

To seize in prize. 



Yet when they asked thee, "Lo! what dost thou bring?" 
Thou gav'st thyself, 
Thou gav'st thy body, gav'st thy soul; 
Thou gav'st thyself, one consecrated whole 
To sacrificial torture for thy King. 

132 



ODE TO A YOUNG MAN 133 

O lovely youth, slaughtered at manhood's dawn, 

In virgin purity thou liest dead, 
And slaughtered were thy sons unborn, 

With thee unwed. 

Sleep on, pure youth, sleep at Earth's soothing breast, 
No king's sarcophagus was e'er so fine 
As that poor shallow soldier's grave of thine, 

Where all ungarlanded thou tak'st thy rest. 

Dynely Hussey. 



LII 

Goliath and David 

For D. C. T., killed at Fricourt, March 19 16 

ONCE an earlier David took 
Smooth pebbles from the brook: 
Out between the lines he went 
To that one-sided tournament, 
A shepherd boy who stood out fine 
And young to fight a Philistine 
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears 
That he's killed lions, he's killed bears, 
And those that scorn the God of Zion 
Shall perish so like bear or lion. 
But the historian of that fight 
Had not the heart to tell it right. 
Striding within javelin range 
Goliath marvels at this strange 
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength. 
David's clear eye measures the length; 
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee, 
Poises a moment thoughtfully, 
And hurls with a long vengeful swing. 
The pebble, humming from the sling 
i34 



GOLIATH AND DAVID 135 

Like a wild bee, flies a sure line 

For the forehead of the Philistine, 

Then . . . but there comes a brazen clink, 

And quicker than a man can think 

Goliath's shield parries each cast, 

Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last. 

Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye 

Towering unhurt six cubits high. 

Says foolish David, "Damn your shield, 

And damn my sling, but I'll not yield." 

He takes his staff of Mamre oak, 

A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke 

The skull of many a wolf and fox 

Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks. 

Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh 

Can scatter chariots like blown chaff 

To rout: but David, calm and brave, 

Holds his ground, for God will save. 

Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh ! 

Shame for Beauty's overthrow! 

(God's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.) 

One cruel backhand sabre cut — 

"I'm hit, I'm killed," young David cries, 

Throws blindly forward, chokes . . . and dies. 

And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim, 

Goliath straddles over him. 

Robert Graves. 



LIII 

To R at Anzac 

YOU left your vineyards, dreaming of the vines in a 
dream land 
And dim Italian cities where high cathedrals stand. 
At Anzac in the evening, so many things we planned, 
And now you sleep with comrades in the Anafarta sand. 



There are men go gay to battle like the cavaliers to dance, 
And some with happy dreamings like princes in romance, 
And some men march unquestioning to where the answer 

lies, 
The dawn that comes like darkness they meet with lover's 

eyes. 



You heard the bugles call to arms, and like a storm men's 

cheers, 
But veiled behind that music, you knew the women's 

tears. 
You heard the Vikings singing in a rapture to the sea, 
And passing clear beyond that song, the waves of Galilee. 

136 



TO R AT ANZAC 137 

You lived for peace and lived for war, you knew no little 

strife ; 
To conquer first, then help your foe, made music of your 

life. 
And for the sake of those you led, you gave your life away, 
As youth might fling a coin of gold upon a sunny day. 



If Odin mustered Vikings, you would rule his pagan crew. 
If Mary came to choose her knights, she'd hand her sword 

to you. 
Men scattered in the wilderness, or crowded in the street, 
Would choose you for their leader and glory in defeat. 



You'd find a bridge to Lazarus, or any man in pain. 
There are not many like you that I shall see again ; 
I do not grieve for you who laughed, and went into the 

shade, 
I sorrow for the dream that's lost, Italian plans we made. 



Good-bye! It's Armageddon. You will not prune your 

vine, 
Nor taste the salt of channel winds, nor hear the singing 

Rhine. 
You'll sleep with friends and enemies until the trumpet 

sounds, 
And open are the thrones of kings, and all the Trojan 

mounds. 



138 TO R AT ANZAC 

When women's tears are rainbows then, that shine across 

the sky, 
And swords are raised in last salute, to a comrade enemy, 
And what men fought and failed for, or what men strove 

and won, 
Are like forgotten shadows, and clouds that hid the sun. 

Aubrey Herbert. 



LIV 

To John 

OHEART-AND-SOUL and careless played 
Our little band of brothers, 
And never recked the time would come 

To change our games for others. 
It's joy for those who played with you 

To picture now what grace 
Was in your mind and single heart 

And in your radiant face. 
Your light-foot strength by flood and field 

For England keener glowed; 
To whatsoever things are fair 

We know, through you, the road; 
Nor is our grief the less thereby; 

O swift and strong and dear, good-bye. 

William Grenfell. 

J The Hon. John Manners. 



139 



LV 

To C. A. L. 

TO have laughed and talked — wise, witty, fantastic, 
feckless — 
To have mocked at rules and rulers and learnt to obey, 
To have led your men with a daring adored and reckless, 
To have struck your blow for Freedom, the old straight 
way: 

To have hated the world and lived among those who 
love it, 
To have thought great thoughts and lived till you knew 
them true, 
To have loved men more than yourself and have died to 
prove it — 
Yes, Charles, this is to have lived : was there more to do ? 

C. A. A. 

1 The Hon. Charles Lister. 



140 



The Future Hope 



LVI 

Gifts of the Dead 

BLOW out, you bugles, over the rich dead! 
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, 
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. 
These laid the world away; poured out the red 
Sweet wine of youth ; gave up the years to be 
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, 
That men call age; and those who would have been, 
Their sons, they gave, their immortality. 

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth 
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. 

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, 
And paid his subjects with a royal wage; 

And Nobleness walks in our ways again ; 
And we have come into our heritage. 

Rupert Brooke. 



143 



LVII 

War's Cataract 

IN this red havoc of the patient earth, 
Though higher yet the tide of battle rise, 
Now has the hero cast away disguise, 
And out of ruin splendour comes to birth. 
This is the field where Death and Honour meet, 
And all the lesser company are low: 
Pale Loveliness has left her mirror now 
And walks the Court of Pain with silent feet. 

From cliff to cliff war's cataract goes down, 
Hurling its booming waters to the shock ; 
And, tossing high their manes of gleaming spray, 
The crested chargers leap from rock to rock, 
While over all, dark though the thunder frown, 
The rainbows climb above to meet the day. 

Herbert Asquith. 



144 



LVIII 

Reincarnation 

I TOO remember distant golden days 
When even my soul was young; I see the sand 
Whirl in a blinding pillar towards the band 
Of orange sky-line 'neath a turquoise blaze — 
(Some burnt-out sky spread o'er a glistening land) 
— And slim brown jargoning men in blue and gold, 
I know it all so well, I understand 
The ecstasy of worship ages-old. 

Hear the first truth: The great far-seeing soul 

Is ever in the humblest husk ; I see 
How each succeeding section takes its toll 

In fading cycles of old memory. 
And each new life the next life shall control 

Until perfection reach eternity. 

E. Wyndham Tennant. 

Ramparts, Ypres, 
July 1 91 6. 



145 



LIX 

The Dead, 1915 

YE that have hewn from death's dark stubborn stone 
Immortal frescoes lovelier than light, 
And given to sacrifice a rosier might 
Than all unstable Autumn's wealth unstrown, 
And unto Life such terrible renown, 

And unto Love a loss so sweet and white 
That purer than the stars he stands to-night 
Smiling serene, unspeakably alone — 

If aught of earth can reach immortal ears, 

May truth's white bird of rumour, mounting high, 

Bring you the secret of our hidden tears 

And the proud falsehood of the tearless eye; 

Till in the heavy wrappage of the years 

Death's self be hid and sad truth seem a lie. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 



146. 



LX 

Two Sonnets 

i 

SAINTS have adored the lofty soul of you. 
Poets have whitened at your high renown. 
We stand among the many millions who 
Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. 
You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried 
To live as of your presence unaware. 
But now in every road on every side 
We see your straight and steadfast signpost there. 

I think it like that signpost in my land 

Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go 

Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, 

Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, 

A homeless land and friendless, but a land 

I did not know and that I wished to know. 

II 

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: 
Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, 
A merciful putting away of what has been. 

H7 



148 TWO SONNETS 

And this we know: Death is not Life effete, 

Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen 

So marvellous things know well the end's not yet. 



Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: 

Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, 

"Come, what was your record when you drew breath ?" 

But a big blot has hid each yesterday 

So poor, so manifestly incomplete. 

And your bright promise, withered long and sped, 

Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet 

And blossoms and is you, when you are dead. 

Charles Hamilton Sorley. 



LXI 

To Germany 

YOU are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, 
And no man claimed the conquest of your land. 
But, gropers both through fields of thought confined, 
We stumble and we do not understand. 
You only saw your future bigly planned, 
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, 
And in each other's dearest ways we stand, 
And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. 

When it is peace, then we may view again 

With new-won eyes each other's truer form, 

And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm, 

We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, 

When it is peace. But, until peace, the storm, 

The darkness, and the thunder and the rain. 

Charles Hamilton Sorley. 



149 



LXH 

If we return 

IF we return, will England be 
Just England still to you and me? 
The place where we must earn our bread? 
We who have walked among the dead* 
And watched the smile of agony, 
And seen the price of Liberty, 
Which we had taken carelessly 
From other hands. Nay, we shall dread, 
If we return, 
Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily 
The things that men have died to free. 
Oh, English fields shall blossom red 
For all the blood that has been shed 
By men whose guardians are we, 
If we return. 

F. W. Harvey. 



150 



LXIII 

A People Renewed 

NOW these like men shall live, 
And like to princes fall. 
They take what Fate will give 
At this great festival. 

And since at length they find 

That life is sweet indeed, 
They cast it on the wind 

To serve their country's need. 

See young "Adventure" there 

("Make-money-quick" that was) 

Hurls down his gods that were 
For Honour and the Cross! 

Old "Grab-at-Gold" lies low 

In Flanders. And again 
(Because men will it so) 

England is ruled by Men. 

F. W. Harvey. 



151 



LXIV 

Afterwards 

THOSE dreadful evidences of Man's ill-doing 
The kindly Mother of all shall soon hide deep, 
Covering with tender fingers her children asleep, 
Till Time's slow cycle turns them to renewing 
In other forms their beauty — No grief, no rueing 
Irrevocable woe. They'll lie, they'll steep 
Their hearts in peace unfathomed, till they leap 
Quick to the light of the sun, as flowers strewing, 
Maybe, their own friends' paths. And that's not all. 
When men who knew them walk old ways alone, 
The paths they loved together, at even-fall, 
Then the sad heart shall know a presence near, 
Friendly, familiar, and the old grief gone, 
The new keen joy shall make all darkness clear. 

Ivor Gurney. 



153 



LXV 

When it's Over 

YOUNG soldier, what will you be 
When it's all over?" 
"I shall get out and across the sea, 
Where land's cheap and a man can thrive. 
I shall make money. Perhaps I'll wive 
In a place where there's room for a family. 
I'm a bit of a rover." 

"Young soldier, what will you be 

At the last 'Dismiss'?" 
"Bucked to get back to old Leicester Square, 
Where there's good champagne and a glad eye winking, 
And no more 'Verey Lights' damnably blinking 
Their weary, dreary, white-eyed stare. 

I'll be out of this." 

"Young soldier, what will you be 
When they sign the peace?" 
"Blowed if I know; perhaps I shall stick it. 
The job's all right if you take it steady. 
i53 



154 WHEN IT S OVER 

After all, somebody's got to be ready, 
And tons of the blighters '11 get their ticket. 
Wars don't cease." 



"Young soldier, what will you be 

At the day's end ?" 
"Tired's what I'll be. I shall lie on the beach 
Of a shore where the rippling waves just sigh, 
And listen and dream and sleep and lie 
Forgetting what I've had to learn and teach 

And attack and defend." 



"Young soldier, what will you be 

When you're next a-bed?" 
"God knows what; but it doesn't matter, 
For whenever I think, I always remember 
The Belgians massacred that September, 
And England's pledge — and the rest seems chatter. 

What if I am dead?" 



"Young soldier, what will you be 

When it's all done?" 
"I shall come back and live alone 
On an English farm in the Sussex Weald, 
Where the wounds in my mind will be slowly sealed, 
And the graves in my heart will be overgrown; 

And I'll sit in the sun." 



WHEN ITS OVER 1 55 

"Young soldier, what will you be 

At the 'Last Post'?" 
"Cold, cold in the tender earth, 
A cold body in foreign soil ; 
But a happy spirit fate can't spoil, 
And an extra note in the blackbird's mirth 

From a khaki ghost." 

Max Plowman. 



LXVI 

Optimism 

AT last there'll dawn the last of the long year, 
Of the long year that seemed to dream no end ; 
Whose every dawn but turned the world more drear 

And slew some hope, or led away some friend. 
Or be you dark, or buffeting, or blind, 
We care not, Day, but leave not death behind. 

The hours that feed on war go heavy-hearted: 
Death is no fare wherewith to make hearts fain; 

Oh ! We are sick to find that they who started 
With glamour in their eyes come not again. 

Oh Day, be long and heavy if you will, 

But on our hopes set not a bitter heel. 

For tiny hopes, like tiny flowers of spring, 

Will come, though death and ruin hold the land ; 
Though storms may roar they may not break the wing 

Of the earthed lark whose song is ever bland. 
Fell year unpitiful, slow days of scorn, 
Your kind shall die, and sweeter days be borne. 

A. V. Ratcliffe. 
156 



The Christian Soldier 



LXVII 

The Cross of Wood 

GOD be with you and us who go our way 
And leave you dead upon the ground you won. 
For you at last the long fatigue is done, 
The hard march ended ; you have rest to-day. 



You were our friends; with you we watched the dawn 
Gleam through the rain of the long winter night, 
With you we laboured till the morning light 
Broke on the village, shell-destroyed and torn. 



Not now for you the glorious return 
To steep Stroud valleys, to the Severn leas 
By Tewkesbury and Gloucester, or the trees 
Of Cheltenham under high Cotswold stern. 



For you no medals such as others wear — 
A cross of bronze for those approved brave — 
To you is given, above a shallow grave, 
The Wooden Cross that marks you resting there. 

i59 



1 6© THE CROSS OF WOOD 

Rest you content; more honourable far 
Than all the Orders is the Cross of Wood, 
The symbol of self-sacrifice that stood 
Bearing the God whose brethren you are. 

Cyril Winterbotham. 



LXVIII 

What is War? 

WHAT is war? 
Ask the young men who fight, 
Men who defend the right, 
Ask them — what is war? 
"Honour — or death — that is war," 
Say the young men. 

What is war? 
Ask of the women who weep, 
Mourning for those who sleep, 
Ask them — what is war? 
"Sorrow and grief — that is war," 
Say the women. 

What is war? 
By ways beyond our ken, 
God tries the souls of men, 
Sends retribution just, 
Punishing vice and lust, 
God's wrath for sin — that is war. 

J. M. Rose-Troup. 
Weilburg a. d. Lahn, 

February nth, 1916. 

161 



LXIX 

How long, O Lord? 

HOW long, O Lord, how long, before the flood 
Of crimson-welling carnage shall abate? 
From sodden plains in West and East, the blood 

Of kindly men steams up in mists of hate, 
Polluting Thy clean air; and nations great 

In reputation of the arts that bind 
The world with hopes of heaven, sink to the state 

Of brute barbarians, whose ferocious mind 

Gloats o'er the bloody havoc of their kind, 
Not knowing love or mercy. Lord, how long 

Shall Satan in high places lead the blind 
To battle for the passions of the strong? 

Oh, touch Thy children's hearts, that they may know 

Hate their most hateful, pride their deadliest foe. 

Robert Palmer. 



i 62 



LXX 

Release 

THERE is a healing magic in the night, 
The breeze blows cleaner than it did by day, 
Forgot the fever of the fuller light, 
And sorrow sinks insensibly away 
As if some saint a cool white hand did lay 
Upon the brow, and calm the restless brain. 
The moon looks down with pale unpassioned ray — 
Sufficient for the hour is its pain. 
Be still and feel the night that hides away earth's stain. 
Be still and loose the sense of God in you, 
Be still and send your soul into the all, 
The vasty distance where the stars shine blue, 
No longer antlike on the earth to crawl. 
Released from time and sense of great or small, 
Float on the pinions of the Night-Queen's wings; 
Soar till the swift inevitable fall 
Will drag you back into all the world's small things ; 
Yet for an hour be one with all escaped things. 

COLWYN PHILIPPS.* 
* Found in his note-book when his kit came home. 



l6g 



LXXI 

In the Lower Garden 

The Rose 

WHY do you leave me always here ? 
For me no usefulness is found; 
I have no beauty anywhere ; 
Will you not tear me from the ground ? 

The Gardener 

Watch ye the lilies how they grow, 
They neither toil nor make complaint. 
Look at their gentleness, and know 
They are a strength to stay the faint. 

The Rose 

I do not see the lilies, Lord, 
And I am weary of this waste. 

The Gardener 

Watch ye the grass upon the sward ; 
The lily never grows in haste. 
164 



IN THE LOWER GARDEN 1 65 

The Rose 

Yea, in the grass I see a stalk; 
The bending leaves to left and right 
Fashion a cross beside the walk 
Tell me the meaning of this sight. 

The Gardener 

The lily makes a cross because 

I planted it to give a sign 

That what the Word of God once was 

Shall ever be the truth benign. 

The Rose 

See on the stem it bows its head 
Stooping to open unto earth. 

The Gardener 

So on the cross the Saviour dead 
Opened to man a second birth. 

The Rose 

Oh what a lovely yellow bloom, 
Crown of the richest golden hue! 
Light from the Garden's open Tomb, 
Give me a golden flower too! 



1 66 IN THE LOWER GARDEN 

The Gardener 

Know ye the spirit of your kind? 
It is not Mine to make it so; 
Colour and form are of the mind; 
Ponder the lilies, how they blow! 

The Rose 

Now do I feel a bud of life 
Springing from out my slender trail. 

The Gardener 

Soon you will bear the fruit of strife 
That draws to earth the Holy Grail. 

The Rose 

Grant me the fulness of Thy grace, 
An open heart, that ever knows 
Wisdom and strength Thy love to trace, 
Blossoming forth a full-blown rose. 

The Gardener 
Ponder the lilies! Pomp and pride, 
Wisdom and honour, wealth and dress, 
Solomon's glory never vied 
With all the splendour they possess! 

The Rose 
Give me just wisdom, peace of mind, 
To be the Watchman of my Tower. 



IN THE LOWER GARDEN 1 67 

The Gardener 

There is no wisdom more to find 

If you but know this golden flower! 

The Rose 

While the pure form I contemplate, 
And note the humble drooping pose, 
A stirring quickens my estate ; 
The bud becomes a full-blown rose. 

The Gardener 

Thou must let fall thy petals too, 
And thou shalt be both pure and great ; 
Thy ruddy splendour, royal hue, 
Betokens Life Illuminate! 

The Rose 

O Thou to whom all hearts are pure, 
Thy prescience telleth my desire ! 

The Gardener 
The lily tells you to endure 
And pray the Spirit to inspire. 

The Rose 
This have I done, Lord, from the first, 
But this is finite, where we dwell, 
For Living Water, Lord, I thirst ; 
Thou art the Water and the Well! 



1 68 IN THE LOWER GARDEN 

The Gardener 

There is a life beyond the grave; 
Leave all, unite with Me, and rise 
Upwards, and bless the One who gave 
The lily power to make men wise ! 

H. S. Graham. 

March 1916. 



LXXII 

A Christmas Prayer 

From the Trenches 

NOT yet for us may Christmas bring 
Good-will to men, and peace ; 
In our dark sky no angels sing, 
Not yet the great release 
For men, when war shall cease. 



So must the guns our carols make, 
Our gifts must bullets be, 

For us no Christmas bells shall wake ; 
These ruined homes shall see 
No Christmas revelry. 



In hardened hearts we fain would greet 
The Babe at Christmas born, 

But lo, He comes with pierced feet, 
Wearing a crown of thorn, — 
His side a spear has torn. 
169 



I70 A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 

For tired eyes are all too dim, 
Our hearts too full of pain, 

Our ears too deaf to hear the hymn 
Which angels sing in vain, 
"The Christ is born again." 

O Jesus, pitiful, draw near, 

That even we may see 
The Little Child who knew not fear ; 

Thus would we picture Thee 

Unmarred by agony. 

O'er death and pain triumphant yet 
Bid Thou Thy harpers play, 

That we may hear them, and forget 
Sorrow and all dismay, 
And welcome Thee to stay 
With us on Christmas Day. 

Cyril Winterbotham. 



LXXIII 

Holy Communion Service, 
Suvla Bay 

BEHOLD a table spread! 
A battered corned-beef box, a length of twine, 
An altar-rail of twigs and shreds of string. 
. . . For the unseen, divine, 
Uncomprehended Thing 
A hallowed space amid the holy dead. 

Behold a table spread! 

And on a fair, white cloth the bread and wine, 

The symbols of sublime compassioning, 

The very outward sign 

Of that the nations sing, 

The body that He gave, the blood He shed. 

Behold a table spread! 

And kneeling soldiers in God's battle-line, 

A line of homage to a mightier King: 

All-knowing All-benign! 

Hearing the prayers they bring, 

Grant to them strength to follow where He led. 

W. H. LlTTLEJOHN. 
171 



School and College 



LXXIV 

The Field of Honour 

MUD-STAINED and rain-sodden, a sport for flies 
and lice, 
Out of this vilest life into vile death he goes ; 
His grave will soon be ready, where the grey rat knows 
There is fresh meat slain for her; — our mortal bodies rise, 
In those foul scampering bellies, quick — and yet, those 

eyes 
That stare on life still out of death, and will not close, 
Seeing in a flash the Crown of Honour, and the Rose 
Of Glory wreathed about the Cross of Sacrifice, 

Died radiant. May some English traveller to-day 

Leaving his city cares behind him, journeying west 

To the brief solace of a sporting holiday, 

Quicken again with boyish ardour, as he sees, 

For a moment, Windsor Castle towering on the crest 

And Eton still enshrined among remembering trees. 

Charles Scott-Moncrieff. 



175 



LXXV 

Harrow 9 s Honour 

"Let us now praise famous men" 

AWEARY time, a dreary time, a time of hopes and 
fears, 
The weeks that pass, the months that pass and lengthen 

into years. 
My heart goes back to Harrow, to Harrow far away, 
And Harrow sends a message to cheer me on my way. 
"For good come, bad come, they came the same before, 
So heigh ho, follow the game, and show the way to more." 



Mourn not for those whose names are writ in gold, 
They fought for England, gladly gave their all. 
Kept Harrow's honour spotless as of old, 
Nor feared to answer to the last great call. 



They showed the way to more, their names will ring 
Through all succeeding years of Harrow's fame, 
Whatever changes after years may bring 
Their sons will follow up and play the game. 

176 



HARROWS HONOUR 1 77 

O Mother Herga, all our thanks we give 
For all your care of us, your watchful eye: 
You made us men, you taught us how to live, 
And in your wisdom taught us how to die. 

The strongest bond of all, the bond of friends 

Made in our youth, a bond that naught can break, 

Binds us to you until our journey ends, 

We live, we fight, we die for Harrow's sake. 

J. M. Rose-Troup. 
Friedberg in Hessen, 
June lotli, 1916. 



LXXVI 

A Letter from the Trenches 
to a School Friend 

I HAVE not brought my Odyssey 
With me here across the sea ; 
But you'll remember, when I say 
How, when they went down Sparta way, 
To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn 
Horses were harnessed, rations drawn, 
Equipment polished sparkling bright, 
And breakfasts swallowed (as the white 
Of eastern heavens turned to gold) — 
The dogs barked, swift farewells were told. 
The sun springs up, the horses neigh, 
Crackles the whip thrice — then away! 
From sun-go-up to sun-go-down 
All day across the sandy down 
The gallant horses galloped, till 
The wind across the downs more chill 
Blew, the sun sank and all the road 
Was darkened, that it only showed 
178 



A LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES I 79 

Right at the end the town's red light 
And twilight glimmering into night. 

The horses never slackened till 

They reached the doorway and stood still. 

Then came the knock, the unlading; then 

The honey-sweet converse of men, 

The splendid bath, the change of dress, 

Then — oh the grandeur of their Mess, 

The henchmen, the prim stewardess! 

And oh the breaking of old ground, 

The tales, after the port went round! 

(The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus, 

Old Agamemnon and his misuse 

Of his command, and that young chit 

Paris — who didn't care a bit 

For Helen — only to annoy her 

He did it really, k.t.X.) 

But soon they led amidst the din 

The honey-sweet ctoiSos in, 

Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight, 

Who knew the fame of men in fight — 

Bard of white hair and trembling foot, 

Who sang whatever God might put 

Into his heart. 

And there he sung, 
Those war-worn veterans among, 
Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung, 
Of clash of arms, of council's brawl, 
Of beauty that must early fall, 



l8o A LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES 

Of battle hate and battle joy 
By the old windy walls of Troy. 
They felt that they were unreal then, 
Visions and shadow-forms, not men. 
But those the Bard did sing and say 
(Some were their comrades, some were they) 
Took shape and loomed and strengthened more 
Greatly than they had guessed of yore. 
And now the fight begins again, 
The old war-joy, the old war-pain. 
Sons of one school across the sea 
We have no fear to fight — 

And soon, oh soon, I do not doubt it, 
With the body or without it, 
We shall all come tumbling down 
To our old wrinkled red-capped town. 
Perhaps the road up Ilsley way, 
The old ridge-track, will be my way. 
High up among the sheep and sky, 
Look down on Wantage, passing by, 
And see the smoke from Swindon town; 
And then full left at Liddington, 
Where the four winds of heaven meet 
The earth-blest traveller to greet. 
And then my face is toward the south, 
There is a singing on my mouth : 
Away to rightward I descry 
My Barbury ensconced in sky, 



A LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES l8l 

Far underneath the Ogbourne twins, 
And at my feet the thyme and whins, 
The grasses with their little crowns 
Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs, 
And that old signpost (well I knew 
That crazy signpost, arms askew, 
Old mother of the four grass ways). 
And then my mouth is dumb with praise, 
For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny, 
A glimpse of Marlborough epa/mu^! 
So I descend beneath the rail 
To warmth and welcome and wassail. 



This from the battered trenches — rough, 
Jingling and tedious enough. 
And so I sign myself to you: 
One, who some crooked pathways knew 
Round Bedwyn : who could scarcely leave 
The Downs on a December eve: 
Was at his happiest in shorts, 
And got — not many good reports! 
Small skill of rhyming in his hand — 
But you'll forgive — you'll understand. 

Charles Hamilton Sorley. 



LXXVII 

Domum 

(Omnibus Wiccamicis) 

F i f HE green and grey and purple day is barred with 

jf clouds of dun, 

From Ypres city smouldering before the setting sun; 
Another hour will see it flower, lamentable sight, 
A bush of burning roses underneath the night. 

Who's to fight for Flanders; who will set them free, 
The war-worn lowlands by the English sea? 
Who, my young companions, will choose a way to war, 
That Marlborough, Wellington, have trodden out before? 

Are these mere names? Then hear a solemn sound: 
The blood of our brothers is crying from the ground : 
"What we dared and died for, what the rest may do, 
Little sons of Wykeham, is it naught to you? 

"Father and Founder, our feet may never more 
Tread the stones of Flint-Court or Gunner's green shore, 
But wherever they assemble, we are pressing near, 
Calling and calling: — could our brothers hear!" 

182 



DOMUM 183 

What was it you fought for, whose profit that you died? 

Here is Ypres burning and twenty towns beside, 

Where is the gain in all our pain when he we loved but 

now 
Is lying still on Sixty Hill, a bullet through his brow? 

"He died one thing regarding that is better worth 

Than the golden cities of all the kings on earth. 

Were right and wrong to choose among, he had seen the 

right, 
Had found the thing appointed and done it with his might." 

Thus I muse, regarding, with a pensive eye, 

Towered Ypres blazing, beneath the night sky . . . 

This way may lie failure, but Towers there are that stand, 

Hence, it may be, guarded, in our own green land. 

Charles Scott-Moncrieff. 
St. Eloi, 

June 1915. 



LXXVIII ' 

Ave j Mater — atque Vale 

THE deathless mother, grey and battle-scarred, 
Lies in the sanctuary of stately trees, 
Where the deep Northern night is saffron starred 

Above her head, and thro' the dusk she sees 
God's shadowy fortress keep unsleeping guard. 

From her full breast we drank of joy and mirth 
And gave to her a boy's unreasoned heart, 

Wherein Time's fulness was to bring to birth 
Such passionate allegiance that to part 

Seemed like the passing of all light on earth. 

Now on the threshold of a man's estate, 
With a new depth of love akin to pain 

I ask thy blessing, while I dedicate 

My life and sword, with promise to maintain 

Thine ancient honour yet inviolate. 

Last night dream-hearted in the Abbey's spell 

We stood to sing old Simeon's passing hymn, 
When sudden splendour of the sunset fell 

Full on my eyes, and passed and left all dim — 
At once a summons and a deep farewell. 
184 



AVE, MATER — ATQUE VALE 1 85 

I am content — our life is but a trust 

From the great hand of God, and if I keep 

The immortal Treasure clean of mortal rust 
Against His claim, 'tis well and let me sleep 

Among the not dishonourable dust. 

W. N. Hodgson. 



LXXIX 

Historic Oxford 

OH ! Time hath loaded thee with memories 
Processional. What could these piles unfold 
Of war's lost travail, and the wearied cries 
Of vexed warriors, struggling to hold 
Their hearth secure against proud Norman arms? 
— And yet the while thy quest was not forgot; 
'Mid war and waste and perilous alarms 
Ever thy purpose stood, and yielded not. 
Noble in faith, gallant in chivalry, 
Thou flung'st a radiant word to all the land, — 
Pluck'd from the wealth of thy philosophy, 
And to the world upon the breezes strewn; — 
When, great with loyalty, thou didst withstand 
The kingly perjurer in battle brave: 
While England's Lady by the Winter's boon 
Fled from thy peril o'er the frozen wave. 
What need to tell of all thy generous sons? — 
The priestly Theobald, and in his train 
Master Vacarius, mighty in old law, 
And the great multitudes that now remain 
But shadows flitting in dim pageantry 

186 



HISTORIC OXFORD 1 87 

Across the low-lit stage. In life they saw- 
Service of toil and striving for thy gain: 
The Muse's pensioners in death they lie. 
They cherish'd thee through bitter strife and strain, 
Faithful. They fought the zealous heretic, 
Rapt Wyclif, zealously to guard their Truth. . . . 
Nor worthy less were they who serv'd the sick 
'Mid hopeless plague, and rifled Nature's store 
To bless mankind : nor who for creed or king 
Chang'd learning's mantle for the arms of war, 
Their lives and treasuries surrendering. 
Martyrs and saints have dower'd thee: one in Truth, 
Old Faith, new Hope, have died to save or mar 
The idols of flown ages ; for Truth's .sun 
Shines glad alike upon all enterprise 

That in the Father's eyes 
Flatters the fledgling soul till the pure heights be won. 

These golden memories sit round thy throne — 
They are all thine; and thou art all my own. 

R. W. Sterling. 



LXXX 

An Oxford Retrospect: 
May 1915 

(To R. W. L.) 

MAY! — and I am no more among your spires, 
Dear Mother-city of my soul. 
May ! — and my heart hath new desires, 
My spirit seeks another goal. 

The lilac purples in the meadows green, 
The avenues of elms I walked between 

Cast over Christ Church walk their welcome shade. 
Now in the College garden tulips tall 
Nod to the gnarled wistaria on the wall, 

And bright laburnum clusters gild the glade. 

Now livid snakesheads bloom in Iffley mead, 
And golden king-cups and pale cuckoo-weed, 

That children gather against market-day. 
O'er the cloud-dappled Cumnor hills the shade 
Chases the sunlight — there I oft have strayed 

And watched dun milch-cows munch the hours away. 

The river flows as ever 'neath the trees, 
But I no longer take thereon my ease 

188 



AN OXFORD RETROSPECT: MAY 1915 1 89 

Where a pink hawthorn overhangs the stream. 
Ah! lazy, languid idlings on the Cher, 
Sweet lotus-eatings, while my soul ranged far, 

In empty musing, through a vain day-dream. 

Ah! days of yester-year, whose hours flew by, 
As winds blow past the tent wherein I lie, 

Heedless I let you go nor knew your span. 
And yet — I would not have you back again, 
Even amid the misery and pain 

That now is making of the boy a man. 

Next May ! — And if I lie in some cold grave 

Dear Mother-city of my soul, 
I am content to yield the life you gave 

If but I nobly reach the goal. 

Dynely Hussey. 



LXXXI 

A Dream of New College: 
to a College Comrade 

IN dream I saw the men whom once I knew, 
Whom in the by-gone year the Teuton slew, 
Or Turk or Bulgar — those who sacrificed 
Their lives and all for which their lives they prized — 
And they were met as in the happier time 
Before the first act of imperial crime, 
Within a College garden in the shade 
Of what was once a rampart undecayed. 
They saw me not : and all were silent ; each 
Seemed lost in pondering too deep for speech, 
As if, though undisdainful, they had nought 
To utter for the modes of human thought, 
And yet perchance they thought as one would fain 
Imagine that they thought, returned again 
To find the sacredness of quiet hours 
And beauty, time-unravaged, near these towers. 
Into the still quadrangle, as one is fain 
To bear a cherished poem in the brain, 
And music and great phrases that are dear. 
Or one might pause — though 'twere not wise — to hear 

190 



A DREAM OF NEW COLLEGE igi 

The old clock's tireless ticking (I have known 

Into a terror grow that monotone 

Incessant, threatening, like the unchanging tune, 

Learnt long ago, an idiot will croon, 

Or, to a murderer, dazed, the judge's slow 

Announcing of his near and ultimate woe) : 

The soul would wake to sadness and the moan 

(As of a wind when woods are overthrown) 

Of our great lamentation ; and the mind 

Remember those who nevermore may find 

This quietude, or, borne upon the blast 

Of death, the frontiers of the world have passed. 

So the unopened door, the empty chair, 

The half-filled ledger, and the table bare 

Of books and paper, sad and strange would seem 

To one thus hearkening in the sunlight's gleam, 

As to the priests of Rome both strange and sad 

Would seem the unsought temple, when the glad 

Tidings of joy found welcome and men turned 

To those whom beasts had torn or flames had burned. 

In truth, they seem contented to have died 

In combat against Power deified, 

Glad that the men of future days might see 

Inviolate this beauty's sanctity. 

As if this College with the gardens old 

An emblem of all beauty they did hold, 

Created or to be, if but the soul 

Of England shall escape a cursed control. 

But at the waking hour I knew that all 



192 A DREAM OF NEW COLLEGE 

Was but the mind's creation at the call 
Of pent-up longings: yet I saw for long 
That vision sweet as hymn of evensong. 
I knew they sought not that, their duty done, 
We should have sorrow beyond guerison, 
And yet I felt an anguish of regret 
To have imagined only that they met. 

Alexander Robertson. 



Chivalry of Sport 



LXXXII 

The Soldier's Game 

Pluck, endurance, submission to discipline, good temper, calmness, 
judgment, quickness of observation, self-control, are all qualities as 
essential in a good polo player as in a good soldier. — Badminton 
Library — Polo. 

HERE'S a song of the game we play 
Out on the burnt maidan, 
Right from Poona to Mandalay, 
"Trichy" to far Mooltan. 

Sahib and Jemadar here may meet: 

Victory's laurels rest 
Still with the daring, bold, and fleet 

Sons of the East or West. 

Rules of precedence too we doff, 

Etiquette's self is blind; 
Subalterns ride their Colonel off, 

Nor does the Colonel mind. 

Here's a verse for the steeds we ride, 

Never a swerve or flinch, 
Hunter's strength with a racehorse stride, 

Fourteen hands and an inch. 
i95 



196 THE SOLDIER'S GAME 

Arab, and Waler, and country-bred, 
Chestnut, and brown, and bay, 

Sloping shoulder and lean game head, 
Built to gallop and stay. 

Here's to the "one" who'll never shirk, 

Doing the thing he's told. 
Here's to the "three" who knows his work 

Resolute, safe, and bold. 

Here's to the "back's" unerring aim 

Never a moment late. 
Here's to the man who wins the game 

Galloping hard and straight. 

Blinding and dense the dust-clouds roll, 

Little the horsemen mind, 
Racing hard for the distant goal, 

Thunder of hoofs behind; 

On to the ball when the pace is quick, 

Galldping all the way, 
Stirrup to stirrup and stick to stick — 

God, what a game to play! 

This is the law that mayn't be broke, 

This is our chiefest pride; 
Never a single selfish stroke, 

Every man for the side. 



THE SOLDIERS GAME 197 

This is the toast we love to drink, 

Every night the same, 
Bumpers all! and the glasses clink, 

"Here's to the Soldier's Game!" 

George U. Robins. 



LXXXIII 

Racing Rhymes 

HAVE you felt the joy that is almost fear 
As you face the ditch and are two lengths clear, 
And you hear the thunder of hoofs in rear? 
There is just a second when you may see 
Clear out what the consequence will be — 
If you go too close or take off too far 
Comes a rending crash and a sickening jar, 
A futile arm that you raise to defend, 
And the battering hoofs that bring the end. 

You are stride for stride, and you set your lip 
As you urge with your heel and raise your whip, 
And the moment he feels the whipcord sting 
He leaps from the track with a glorious spring. 
You hear the crash as the stout birch sunders, 
And gain a length as your rival blunders. 

Colwyn Phillips. 



598 



LXXXIV 

The River Bathe 

WHEN the messenger sunbeam over your bed 
Silently creeps in the morn; 
And the dew-drops glitter on flower and tree, 

Like the tears of hope new-born ; 
When the clouds race by in the painted sky 

And the wind has a merry tune: 
Ah ! then for the joy of an early dip 
In the glorious pools of Lune! 

Up! up from your bed! Let the sluggards lie 

In an airy palace of dreams, 
Respond to the joyous lapwing's call 

And the song of the burbling streams! 
Oh, balmy the air, and wondrous fair 

Are the hills with sunlight crowned, 
And all the voices of nature seem 

To mingle in one glad sound. 

Then hurry along, for as light as the heart 

Are the feet on a morning in June, 
To the banks that are speckled with sunshine and shade, 

'Neath the guardian trees of Lune, 

199 



200 THE RIVER BATHE 

Where the eddies play with the rocks all day 

In a whirl of fretful fun, 
And the wavelet kisses the pebbly shore 

With a mirrored smile from the sun. 

A good brave plunge in the crystal cool 

Of this grand primeval tub: 
Then glowing you stand on the warm dry rocks 

By the edge of the foaming Dub. 
Then homeward along, like the soul of a song 

That has every note in tune; 
And dear will the memory always be 

Of the glorious pools of Lune. 

R. W. Sterling. 



LXXXV 

To a Black Greyhound 

SHINING black in the shining light, 
Inky black in the golden sun, 
Graceful as the swallow's flight, 
Light as swallow, winged one, 
Swift as driven hurricane — 

Double-sinewed stretch and spring, 
Muffled thud of flying feet, 
See the black dog galloping, 
Hear his wild foot-beat. 



See him lie when the day is dead, 

Black curves curled on the boarded floor. 
Sleepy eyes, my sleepy-head — 

Eyes that were aflame before. 
Gentle now, they burn no more; 

Gentle now and softly warm, 
With the fire that made them bright 

Hidden — as when after storm 

Softly falls the night. 



202 TO A BLACK GREYHOUND 

God of speed, who makes the fire — 

God of Peace, who lulls the same — 
God who gives the fierce desire, 

Lust for blood as fierce as flame — 
God who stands in Pity's name — 

Many may ye be or less, 
Ye who rule the earth and sun: 

Gods of strength and gentleness, 

Ye are ever one. 

Julian Grenfell. 



LXXXVI 

Hymn to the JVild Boar 

GOD gave the horse for man to ride, 
And steel wherewith to fight, 
And wine to swell his soul with pride 

And women for delight: 
But a better gift than these all four 
Was when He made the fighting boar. 



The horse is filled with spirit rare, 
His heart is bold and free; 

The bright steel flashes in the air, 
And glitters hungrily. 

But these were little use before 

The Lord He made the fighting boar. 

The ruby wine doth banish care, 
But it confounds the head; 

The fickle fair is light as air, 
And makes the heart bleed red; 

But wine nor love can tempt us more 

When we may hunt the fighting boar. 
203 



204 HYMN TO THE WILD BOAR 

When Noah's big monsoon was laid, 
The land began to ride again, 

And then the first hog-spear was made 
By the hands of Tubal Cain; 

The sons of Shem and many more 

Came out to ride the fighting boar. 

Those ancient Jew boys went like stinks, 

They knew not reck nor fear, 
Old Noah knocked the first two jinks. 

And Nimrod got the spear. 
And ever since those times of yore 
True men do ride the fighting boar. 

Julian Grenfell. 



LXXXVII 

Ivinghoe Hill 

HERE, where three counties join hands in alliance, 
Terrace on terrace and glade upon glade, 
Ashridge looms up like a keep of the giants, 

Buttressed with beech woods from Aldbury to Gade. 
Northwards the vale stretches smiling and spacious, 

Spurs of the Chilterns the far distance fill; 
Never held dreamland a prospect more gracious: 
Sunlight and shadow on Ivinghoe hill. 

Here, uneffaced by two thousand years' weather, 

Scarred on the chalk down and stamped in the clay, 
Linking the Eastland and Westland together, 

Runs the long line of the great Icknield Way. 
Here, in the days of the dawning of history, 

Marched the Iceni to plunder and kill ; 
Over it all hangs the glamour of mystery: 

Shades of the past under Ivinghoe hill. 

Yonder's the knoll where the beacon was lighted, 
Northward and eastward the red message runs: 

"Philip's tall ships in the Channel are sighted ; 
Arm, for your country hath need of her sons!'* 

305 



206 IVINGHOE HILL 

Straightway they rose and flung back the Armada. 

Lives the same spirit within our hearts still? 
Can England muster such champions to guard her? 

Mists of the future round Ivinghoe hill. 

Hush! A brown form through the gorse stems is stealing, 

Off to the vale with a wave of his brush! 
Heedless of aught that the future's concealing, 

Back to the present we come with a rush. 
One ringing shout to the horsemen who follow, 

Waking the woods till they echo and thrill; 
Now the horn answers: Hark holloa! hark holloa! 

Huntsman and hound upon Ivinghoe hill. 

George U. Robins. 



LXXXVIII 

Cricket: the Catch 

WHIZZING, fierce, it came 
Down the summer air, 
Burning like a flame 

On my fingers bare, 
And it brought to me 
As swift — a memory. 

Happy days long dead 

Clear I saw once more. 
Childhood that is fled: — 

Rossall on the shore, 
Where the sea sobs wild 
Like a homesick child. 

v. 

Oh, the blue bird's fled! 

Never man can follow. 
Yet at times instead 

Comes this scarlet swallow, 
Bearing on its wings 

(Where it skims and dips, 

Gleaming through the slips) 
Sweet Time-strangled things. 

F. W. Harvey. 
207 



LXXXIX 

Rugby Football 

(Written on receiving the Football Match List 
from Ilkley Grammar School) 

YOU came by last night's mail 
To my strange little mud-built house, 
At a time when the blues were on my trail 

And I'd little to do but grouse. 
For the world seemed a-swim with ooze, 

With everything going wrong, 
And though I knew that we couldn't lose, 

Yet the end of it all seemed long. 
The sandbag bed felt hard, 

And exceedingly cold the rain, 
But you sang to me, little green card, 

And gave me courage again; 
For at sight of the old green back 

And the dear familiar crest, 
I was off and away on memory's track, 
Where Rumbold's Moor stands bleak and black 

And the plaintive curlews nest. 

208 



RUGBY FOOTBALL 209 

Then, thin and clear, I seemed to hear — 
Now low and sweet, now high and strong — 

A note of cheer to banish fear; 
The little card sang thus his song. 

The Song 

There's a broad green field in a broad green vale, 

There's a bounding ball and a straining pack ; 
There's a clean cold wind blowing half a gale, 

There's a strong defence and a swift attack. 
There's a roar from the "touch" like an angry sea, 

As the struggle wavers from goal to goal; 
But the fight is clean as a fight should be, 

And they're friends when the ball has ceased to roll. 
Clean and keen is the grand old rule, 

And heart and courage must never fail. 
They are making men where the grey stone school 

Looks out on the broad green vale. 

Can you hear the call? Can you hear the call? 
Now, School! Now, School! Play up! 
There's many a knock and many a fall 
For those who follow a Rugger ball; 
But hark! — can you hear it? Over all — 
Now, School! Now, School! Play up! 

She makes her men and she sends them forth, 

O proud old mother of many sons! 
The Ilkley breed has proved its worth 

Wherever the bond of Empire runs; 



2IO RUGBY FOOTBALL 

But near or far the summons clear 

Has sought them out from town and heath, 
They've met the foeman with a cheer, 

And face to face have smiled on death. 
They are fighting still to the grand old rule, 
That heart and courage must never fail — 
If they fall, there are more where the grey stone school 
Looks out on the broad green vale. 

Can you hear the call? Can you hear the call 
That drowns the roar of Krupp? 
There are many who fight and many who fall 
Where the big guns play at the Kaiser's ball, 
But hark! — can you hear it? Over all — 

Now, School! Now, School! Play up! 



So when old age has won the fight 

That godlike youth can never win, 
The mind turns from the coming night, 

To boyish visions flooding in; 
And by the hearth the old man dreams 

Of school and all it meant to him, 
Till in the firelight's kindly beams 

The wise old eyes grow very dim. 
But he's lived his life to the grand old rule 

That heart and courage must never fail; 
So he lifts his glass to the grey stone school 

That looks on the broad green vale. 

Can you hear the call? Can you hear the call? 
Here's a toast, now! Fill the cup! 



RUGBY FOOTBALL 211 

Though the shadow of fate is on the wall, 
Here's a final toast ere the darkness fall — 
"The days of our boyhood — best of all!" 

Now, School! Now, School! Play up! 

Eric Wilkinson. 



The Ghostly Company 



xc 
The Home -coming 

WHEN this blast is over-blown, 
And the beacon fires shall burn 
And in the street 
Is the sound of feet — 
They also shall return. 

When the bells shall rock and ring, 
When the flags shall flutter free, 
And the choirs shall sing, 
"God save our King" — 
They shall be there to see. 

When the brazen bands shall play, 
And the silver trumpets blow, 

And the soldiers come 

To the tuck of drum — 
They shall be there also. 

When that which was lost is found; 
When each shall have claimed his. kin, 
Fear not they shall miss 
Mother's clasp, maiden's kiss — 
For no strange soil might hold them in. 
215 



2l6 THE HOME-COMING 

When Te Deums seek the skies, 

When the Organ shakes the Dome, 
A dead man shall stand 
At each live mans hand — 
For they also have come home. 

Joseph Lee. 



XCI 

The Army of Death 

WHEN you see millions of the mouthless dead 
Across your dreams in pale battalions go, 
Say not soft things as other men have said, 
That you'll remember. For you need not so. 
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know 
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? 
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. 
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. 
Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto, 
"Yet many a better one has died before." 
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you 
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, 
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew. 
Great death has made all his for evermore. 

Charles Hamilton Sorley. 



ai7 



XCII 

Cha Till Maccruimein 

Departure of the 4th Camerons 

THE pipes in the streets were playing bravely, 
The marching lads went by, 
With merry hearts and voices singing 

My friends marched out to die; 
But I was hearing a lonely pibroch 

Out of an older war, 
"Farewell, farewell, farewell, MacCrimmon, 
MacCrimmon comes no more." 

And every lad in his heart was dreaming 

Of honour and wealth to come, 
And honour and noble pride were calling 

To the tune of the pipes and drum; 
But I was hearing a woman singing 

On dark Dunvegan shore, 
"In battle or peace, with wealth or honour, 

MacCrimmon comes no more." 

And there in front of the men were marching, 

With feet that made no mark, 
The grey old ghosts of the ancient fighters 

Come back again from the dark; 
218 



CHA TILL MACCRUIMEIN 2K) 

And in front of them all MacCrimmon piping 

A weary tune and sore, 
"On the gathering day, for ever and ever, 
MacCrimmon comes no more." 

E. A. Mackintosh. 



XCIII 

Ghosts 

(Flanders, 1915) 

BY rosy woodlands all aglow 
With autumn, slow-consuming fire, 
By dintling brooks that broaden now, 
By hill and hollow and mead and mire, 
By farms mid all their yellow ricks 
From ivied chimney smoking blue, 
And by the lofty kiln where bricks 
Stand piled in cubes so red and new, 
By queer thatched hamlets all askew, 
And by the little unbusy town 
Around the grey spire that we knew, 
We pass again, but all unknown. 

Again we guide the jolting plough 
Or bake the brittle, tinting clay; 
But none will mark our labour now, 
Urge as we will, toil as we may. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 



XCIV 

Easter Even 

EVENING steals on in stillness o'er the heath, 
Across the blue-green sky and fire-tinged clouds, 
And silent birds wing homewards; misty shrouds 
Rise to the hilltops from the vales beneath ; 



And far away against the eastern sky 
Stand silhouetted pine-trees on a hill, 
Sharp, rugged shapes, so very black and still, 

Like memories dear of childhood stored by. 

An awful silence, like a deep-tongued bell 
Reverberent about me as I stand, 
Its holy mantle sheds upon the land ; 

I dare not move, lest I should break the spell. 



Then many friendly voices spake with me, 
Voices no longer framed by lips of flesh, 
Voices whose noted tones rang strangely fresh, 

Transfigured, instinct with new harmony: 

221 



222 EASTER EVEN 

And I did weep to think that these had died, 

That I should hold no more their clasping hands, 
Which now are blent with dust of foreign lands; 

"But mourn not us; we are content," they cried; 

"Rejoicing we went forth, and loud in song, 
Ready to suffer all things, or to die 
If Fate so willed it; but our hopes were high; 

We went forth steadfast to our will and strong. 

"And some of us return not, but remain 

In close-dug graves o'ergrown with simple flowers, 
Tended by gentle winds, washed with soft showers, 

Lulled on earth's bosom to forget our pain. 

"But comfort these, and on their foreheads lay 
Cool hands of consolation, that they sleep, 
And so forget the cause for which they weep 

In happy dreamlessness until the day." 

Then I saw many mothers grieving sore, 

With sad, bowed heads, hot eyes devoid of tears; 
Some young, unblemished, some grown grey with years, 

Lone mothers mourning for the sons they bore. 

But they were bravely desolate; to speak 
Soft words of comfort, hopeful of relief 
Seemed but an insult to their quiet grief; 

In face of such a sorrow words are weak. 



EASTER EVEN 223 

"Yet this, O mothers, take for comforting: 
We suffer and not they ; the glorious dead 
Are now at peace from Hate and Fear," I said; 

"That day they died, they vanquished suffering. 

"Therefore rejoice with them; for not in vain 
They gave the virgin glory of their youth, 
That evil should not overcome, that truth 

Might not be trampled for a tyrant's gain." 

Then in the air about me ever close 

Strange Things unheard, impalpable, unseen, 
Dimly perceived, danced statelily between 

Heaven and earth; and a great tumult rose, 

The rushing horror of a thousand wings, 
And intermingling voices of sweet praise, 
Of men rejoicing, that had trod the ways 

Of terror, and triumphant faced Death's stings. 

And all those mourners, that were on the earth, 
Raised suppliant arms as o'er a sacrifice, 
And with brave eyes exultant gave the price 

Of victory' — the sons they brought to birth. 

• • • • 

Then suddenly the sudden voices cease, 

And high above shines out the evening star, 
Shedding its ray of love and hope afar, 

And on the stricken earth descendeth peace. 

Dynely Hussey. 



xcv 
The Half -hour's Furlough 

I THOUGHT that a man went home last night 
From the trench where the tired men lie, 
And walked through the streets of his own old town — 
And I thought that man was I. 

And I walked through the gates of that good old town 

Which circles below the hill, 
And laves its feet in the river fair 

That floweth so full and still. 

Gladly and gladly into my heart 

Came the old street sounds and sights, 
And pleasanter far than the Pleiades 

Was the gleam of the old street lights. 

And as I came by St. Mary's Tower, 

The old, solemn bell struck ten, 
And back to me echoed the memory 

Of my boyhood days again: 
Musing I turned me east about 

To the haunt of my fellow-men. 
224 



THE HALF-HOURS FURLOUGH 225 

There were some that walked, and some that talked, 

Beneath the old Arcade, 
And for comfort I elbowed among the throng 

And hearkened to what they said. 

Some were that talked, and some that walked 

By one, by two, by three; 
And some there were who spake my name 

As though they loved me. 

And some who said, "Might he but return 

When this weary war is spent!" 
And it moved me much that their thought was such, 

And I turned me well content. 

I passed me along each familiar way, 

And paused at each friendly door, 
And thought of the things that had chanced within 

In the kindly days of yore. 

Till I came to the place of my long, long love, 
Where she lay with her head on her arm ; 

And she sighed a prayer that the dear Lord should 
Shield my body from all harm. 

Ae kiss I left on her snow-white brow, 

And ane on her raven hair, 
And ane, the last, on her ruby lips, 

Syne forth again I fare. 



226 THE HALF-HOUR'S FURLOUGH 

And I came to the home that will ay be home, 

And brightly the fires did burn, 
And at hearth, and in hearts, was a place for me 

'Gainst the day that I should return. 

Then I came to the glade where my mother was laid, 

'Neath the cypress and the yew: 
And she stood abune, and she said, "My son, 

I am glad that your heart was true." 

And I passed me over both hill and down, 

By each well-remembered path, 
While the blessed dawn, like the love o' God, 

Stole over the sleeping Strath. 

And from a thorn came the pipe of a thrush, 

Like the first faint pipes of Peace: 
It slid with healing into my heart, 

And my sorrowing found surcease. 

Then I awoke to the sound of guns, 

And in my ears was the cry: 
"The Second Relief will stand to arms!" 

And I rose — for that man was I. 

Joseph Lee. 



XCVI 

The Sleep of Death 

WE see no terror in your eyes. 
They say that sleeping you were found; 
Now we with bayonets guard you round. 
Night's shadow up the hillside creeps, 
But you still watch the lighted skies, 
Although the sentinel that sleeps 
The next dawn dies. 

Ah, the remorse is gone that grew 
To think of what my comrade said: 
"Give this to her when I am dead" — 
A heart-shaped thing of little worth 

That held her picture for his view, 
But he was killed and in the earth 

Before I knew. 

It was last night. My watch I kept, 
The stars just overhead shone dim. 
Nought moved upon the hills' far rim. 
But in the hollows shadows seethed, 

And as I watched, towards me crept. 
I listened: deep my comrades breathed 

Where near they slept. 
227 



228 THE SLEEP OF DEATH 

Below men moved innumerable — 
Fancy! and yet there was a doubt. 
I closed my eyes to shut them out, 
And for relief drew deeper breath, 

Across my lids Sleep laid his spell; 
I flung it off — to sleep was death, 

I knew too well. 

There came a pleasant breath of air, 
Cool — wafted from the stars it seemed. 
I looked: now they all brightly gleamed, 
Then long I watched, alert, clear-eyed. 

No sleeper stirred behind me there. . . . 
Yet then of some one at my side 

I grew aware. 

I stared: for he stood there, though dead, 
Yet looking, that seemed nothing strange; 
About his form there was no change 
To see within that little light. 
" 'Tis I. And yet you heard no tread. 
A careless watch you keep to-night," 
He laughing said. 

His voice no huskier had grown, 
Then while I watched, he sat and told 
Me of his love just as of old. 
"Give this to her," I heard him say. 
I looked, and found I was alone. 
Within my hand the locket lay 
Cold as a stone. 



THE SLEEP OF DEATH 22Q 

I have it here to prove he lies 
Who says that sleeping I was found. 
I fear not though you guard me round. 
Night's shadow up the hillside creeps, 

But I can watch the lighted skies, 
Although the sentinel that sleeps 

The next dawn dies. 

Harley Matthews. 



Songs 



XCVII 

The Soldier Speaks 

WITHIN my heart I safely keep, 
England, what things are yours: 
Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep 

That drift o'er windy moors. 
Possessing naught, I proudly hold 

Great hills and little, gay 
Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold 
At breaking of the day. 

Though unto me you be austere 

And loveless, darling land; 
Though you be cold and hard, my dear, 

And will not understand, 
Yet have I fought and bled for you, 

And, by that self-same sign, 
Still must I love you, yearn to you, 

England — how truly mine! 

F. W. Harvey. 



233 



XCVIII 

The Drum 

"Come to me, and I will give you flesh" 

Old Pibrochadh. 

COME! 
Says the drum; 
Though graves be hollow, 
Yet follow, follow: 
Come! 
Says the drum. 

Life! 

Shrills the fife, 

Is in strife — 

Leave love and wife: 

Come ! 

Says the drum. 

Ripe! 

Screams the pipe, 

Is the field — 

Swords and not sickles wield: 
Come ! 

Says the drum. 
234 



THE DRUM 235 

The drum 
Says, Come! 

Though graves be hollow, 

Yet follow, follow: 
Come! 
Says the drum. 

Joseph Lee. 



XCIX 

Home-coming 

THERE is peace in this house, 
He is come again; 
He is here, he is close, 

He, for whom they were fain; 
There is peace in this house. 



There is gladness and joy 
For the safe return 

Of this man, that was boy 
Ere the year did turn; 

There is gladness and joy. 



There is sorrow to tell 
For his grim-born pain; 

He went down into hell, 
Saw his comrades slain ; 

There is sorrow as well. 
236 



HOME-COMING 237 

Above all, there is pride 

For the deeds he wrought; 
He would gladly have died, 

Could his life purchase aught; 
There is pride! There is pride! 

Dynely Hussey. 



In Flanders 

I'M homesick for my hills again— 
My hills again! 
To see above the Severn plain, 
Unscabbarded against the sky, 
The blue high blade of Cotswold lie; 
The giant clouds go royally 
By jagged Malvern with a train 
Of shadows. Where the land is low 
Like a huge imprisoning O 
I hear a heart that's sound and high, 
I hear the heart within me cry: 
"I'm homesick for my hills again — 

My hills again! 
Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain ! 

My hills again!" 

F. W. Harvey. 



238 



CI 

The Broken Heart 

I FOUND a silver sixpence, 
A sixpence, a sixpence, 
I found a silver sixpence, 

And I brake it in tvva; 
I gied it till a sodger, 
A sodger, a sodger, 
I gied it till a sodger, 
Before he gaed awa\ 

I have a heart that's broken, 
That's broken, that's broken; 
I bear a heart that's broken, 

That's broken in twa — 
For I gied it till a sodger, 
A sodger, a sodger, 
I gied it till a sodger, 

Before he gaed awa'! 



Joseph Lee. 



239 



CII 



The Willow-tree Bough 

MY heart's at the war with a good-natured rifleman 
Where he stands firing his foemen to slay: 
While he was home with us, laughter and liveliness — 
Night time or church time 'twas all holiday. 

Friends who fall in with a good-natured rifleman 

Tell him his Helen abides by her vow 
Just as she swore when her William, last January, 
Carved his sweet name on the willow-tree bough. 

He's got moustaches, a good-natured rifleman, 

Curled at each end like the fiery young moon, 
Yes, and he marches so deft and delightfully, 
All the old streets here still echo the tune. 

Now that he's given himself up for a soldier, 

All over the world his brave body to show, 
How can you wonder that I in my anxiousness 
Weep with my eyes on the willow-tree bough? 

Here's to their health, the green-jacketed gentlemen, 

Scouring their enemies over the plain, 
Fighting like seals in a lickerish estuary 

Soon may old Winchester see them again — 

240 



THE WILLOW-TREE BOUGH 24.I 

Soon may the children, are yet to be born to me, 
Standing around like young shoots in a row, 

Hark to the eldest one spelling so easily 

Worm-eaten words on the willow-tree bough. 

Charles Scott-Moncrieff. 



cm 
Low Germany 

To be Sung to the Tune of "High Germany" 

NO more the English girls may go 
To follow with the drum, 
But still they flock together 
To see the soldiers come; 
For horse and foot are marching by, 

And the bold artillery: 
They're going to the cruel wars 
In Low Germany. 

They're marching down by lane and town 

And they are hot and dry, 
But as they marched together 

I heard the soldiers cry: 
"Oh all of us, both horse and foot, 

And the proud artillery, 
We're going to the merry wars 

In Low Germany." 

Edward Shanks. 



24a 



Loving and Living 



CIV 

To Mother 

CAN I make my feeble art 
Show the burning of my heart? 
Five-and-twenty years of schooling 
Since you bore me, weak and puling, 
Every day and every hour 
I have battened on your power, 

While you taught of life the whole; 
You my Best Beloved and nighest, 
You who ever claimed the highest 

Was the one and only goal. 
Often weary, often ailing, 
Never for a moment failing, 
Always cheering, always propping, 
Often checking, sometimes stopping, 
When the sands of life seemed sliding 
You were helping, you were guiding — 

Claimed for me the glorious role: 
You my loved one and no other, 
You my only lovely Mother, 

You the pilot of my soul. 

COLWYN PHILIPPS. 



2+5 



cv 
Mother's Birthday 

IT was good to be alive on mother's Birthday, 
It was good to shake off sleepiness and rise, 
It was good to throw the legs across my pony 
And to drink the morning sunlight with the eyes. 



It was good to take the road on mother's Birthday 
As old "Bob" kicked up his heels and ran away, 

It was good to trot him back into his stable 

And to play with "Ginger" till he got his hay. 



It was good to have my bath on mothers Birthday 
And to swill the water cold all down the back, 

It was good to shave and wash and put on khaki 
And kneel and ask that mother has no lack. 



It was good to up and out on mother's Birthday, 
And to join the merry fellows in the mess. 

It was good to toast the bread for early breakfast 
And enjoy myself a little none the less! 
246 



MOTHER S BIRTHDAY 247 

It was good to see the works on mother's Birthday 
And to have a look how things were going on, 

It was good to see the carpenters and sawyers 
And the engines and the horses pulling strong. 

It was good to see the shops on mother's Birthday, 
And the blacksmiths at the anvil and the forge, 

And the fitters and the masons and the plumbers, 
Busy tradesmen, trusty soldiers of King George 

It was good to see the field on mother's Birthday, 
It was good to feel the sunshine and the breeze, 

It was good to see the water in the river, 

And the flowers and the sparrows and the trees. 

It was good to think of men on mother's Birthday, 
Just the men you have to govern and to serve, 

And to say that this must not be done or must be, 
So that every man may offer every nerve. 

It was good to walk the line on mother's Birthday 
To the Hospital — along and back again, 

It was good to see the nurses and the doctors 
And to breathe a silent prayer for dying men. 

It was good to drill the men on mother's Birthday, 
All the company in column in the field. 

It was good to see their arms were clean and steady, 
And to see them marching firmly as they wheeled. 



248 mother's birthday 

It was good to pay the men on mother's Birthday, 
And to give them but an earnest of their due, 

And to see them playing Footer in the evening, 
Just to keep their bodies manly, strong, and true. 

It was good to have a rest on mother's Birthday, 
In the evening when the daytime's work was done. 

It was good to sit and look across to mother, 
And to contemplate the rest when it is won. 

It was good to go to sleep on mother's Birthday, 

And to let the tired body take its ease, 
And to dream of dreamy, long-forgotten spring days 

When a little body lay on mother's knees. 

Only every man has not a mother's Birthday, 
No one ever had a mother just like mine! 

It was good to be alive on mother's Birthday, 
Son of Mary — Mother, gentle and divine. 

H. S. Graham.*" 

* When the author told the "Padre" that this piece seemed only 
doggerel, he said it didn't matter if it was. 



CVI 

The Bonny j Bonny Braes 



LONELY I lingered when you went, 
Recalling how the days had fled 
Each with its mingled treasure pent 

Of shine and shade remembered . . . 
Oh, how I crush'd the grapes divine, 
Blending a flood of wakeful wine. 

Next look'd I on the well-lov'd scene, 
Eager its ready wealth to glean: 

And forg'd therefrom a cup of gold — 
Red hills, blue loch, and islands green — 

(Rare alchemy!). So could it hold 
That vintage of our joy, and I 
Drink deep the draught of memory. 

n 

Love, be not sad but listen 

To the laughter of the wave, 
Sweeping ever madly after 

His desire above yon cave: 
249 



250 THE BONNY, BONNY BRAES 

See the leaping shingle glisten 

With the fire his kisses gave — 
Oh mingle, love, your laughter 

With the laughter of the wave. 

R. W. Sterling. 



CVII 



Suvla Bay 



OLD rose and black and, indigo, 
Saffron streaks in a spume-tipped grey, 
Purple, laved in the dawn's wan glow — 
God, how fair you are, Suvla Bay! 



Spitting shrapnel and shrieking steel, 

Brave men dead in their youth's noonday, 

All the anguish their loved ones feel 
Is your ambrose, fair Suvla Bay! 



Stabbing sun from a brazen sky, 

Choking dust from the corpse-strewn way, 
Each one treads as he marches by, — 

God, how I loathe you, Suvla Bay! 



Tanned men delving with laboured breath, 
Stinking lighters discharging hay, 

Grey-hulled battleships belching death, 
God, there's work on at Suvla Bay! 
251 



252 SUVLA BAY 

Pale, pale moon and the cold north star, 
You who watch while I kneel and pray, 

Take to her in the northland far 
One sobbing prayer from Suvla Bay! 



One sobbing prayer that the dull heart-pain 
God in heav'n Thou alone canst stay, 

For her be stilled till I come again 
Back to her side from Suvla Bay! 

W. H. LlTTLEJOHN. 



CVIII 

/ Love 

I LOVE thee as I love the holiest things, 
Like perfect poetry and angels' wings, 
And cleanliness, and sacred motherhood, 
And all things simple, sweetly pure, and good. 
I love thee as I love a little child, 
And calves and kittens, and all things soft and mild: 
Things that I want to cuddle and to kiss, 
And stroke and play with: dear, I love like this. 
And, best of all, I love thee as a friend, 
O fellow seeker of a mutual end ! 

COLWYN PHILIPPS. 



253 



CIX 

To his Maid 

SINCE above Time, upon Eternity 
The lovely essence of true loving's set, 
Time shall not triumph over you and me, 

Nor — though we pay his debt — 
Shall Death hold mastery. 

Your eyes are bright for ever. Your dark hair 
Holds an eternal shade. Like a bright sword 

Shall flame the vision of your strange sweet ways, 
Cleaving the years: and even your smallest word 

Lying forgotten with the things that were, 

Shall glow and kindle, burning up the days. 

F. W. Harvey. 



254 



ex 
The Barrier 

A WALL and gulf for ever He between, 
Not all that we may do through love or wit 
Can quite avail to pull away the screen, 
Nor yet succeed in bridging o'er the pit. 
He knows the reason, He that ordered it, 
Who bade us love but never understand. 
He fixed the barrier as He saw fit, 
And bade us yearn and still stretch forth the hand 
Across the very sea He'd said should ne'er be spanned. 
But sure this great and aching love of mine, 
That ever yearns to know and to be known, 
Can tear the veil that sometimes seems so fine 
As though 'twere cobweb waiting but the blow 
To fall asunder and for ever go. 
E'en as I rise to strike, it is too late, 
The cobwebs billow, thicken, seem to grow 
To a thick wall with buttress tall and great. . . . 
I stand alone, a stranger at a city gate. 

COLWYN PHILIPPS. 



255 



CXI 

Rainbow 

GOD built a bridge 
Across the sky 
From ridge to ridge, 

And arched it high; 
And made it bright 

Against the storm, 
And wrought with light 
Its rounded form. 

So leapt your love 

Across the sky 
That loured above 

So hopelessly ; 
And at its end 

Of trembling light 
You stand, O friend, 

Beyond my sight. 



Dynely Hussey. 



256 



CXII 



Fulfilment 



WAS there love once? I have forgotten her. 
Was there grief once? Grief still is mine. 
Other loves I have; men rough, but men who stir 
More joy, more grief than love of thee and thine. 

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, 
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun ; 

Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, 
As whose children, brothers we are and one. 

And any moment may descend hot death 
To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, and blast 

Beloved soldiers who love rude life and breath 
Not less for dying faithful to the last. 

O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, 
Oped, black, gushing mouth, fallen head, 

Failing pressure of a held hand shrunk and stony, 
O sudden spasm, release of the dead ! 
257 



258 FULFILMENT 

Was there love once? I have forgotten her. 

Was there grief once? Grief still is mine. 
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, 

All, all my joy, my grief, my love are thine! 

Robert Nichols. 



CXIII 

The Spirit of Womanhood 

1. Sending 

WHEN as of old the Spartan mother sent 
Her best beloved to the perilous field, 
One charge she laid upon him ere he went: 
"Return, my son, or with or on thy shield." 
Even so we, with anguish unrevealed 
By eyes o'er-bright and lips to laughter lent, 
Sent forth our men to battle, nor would yield 
To tears by pride's fierce barriers hardly pent. 

So when they fight and all the world goes red, 
No memories athwart their souls shall come 
That might unman them in the hour of need, 
But such brave glances veiling hearts that bleed 
As those old mothers turned upon their dead 
On comrades' shoulders borne triumphant home. 

2. Rebellion 

Was it for this, dear God, that they were born, 
These sons of ours, the beautiful and brave, 
To fall far from us, leaving us forlorn, 
Scarce knowing even if they found a grave? 

259 



26o THE SPIRIT OF WOMANHOOD 

It comforts not that cheerfully they gave 
Their lives for England ; nay, to us, outworn 
With grief, it skills but that they could not save 
Themselves in saving her from shame and scorn. 

Cometh no answer from the pitiless skies 
To us in darkness for our lost ones weeping; 
Their place is empty, empty as our hearts, 
Or as our prayers unheeded, nor departs 
The instant anguish: we but hush our cries 
Lest they should trouble our beloved sleeping. 

5. Peace 

Surely the bitterness of death is past, 

Drained to the dregs the waters of despair, 

Yea, pride on our beloved shall outlast 

All poor desiring for the things that were. 

The men we wedded and the sons we bare 

Died valiantly and for the right stood fast: 

Yet 'twas our blood that made them strong to dare, 

Our hearts that in the battle-scale were cast. 

Light of our eyes for all the years to be, 
Fruit of our dreams, our dearest selves fulfilled, 
These have we laid as gifts on Freedom's altar 
With blinding tears, yet all ungrudgingly; 
Henceforth our high hearts shall not fail nor falter, 
Though in them gladness be for ever stilled. 

A. L. Jenkins. 



CXIV 

Any Soldiers JVife 

i 

LISTEN: going up the street 
The echo of my soldier's feet. 
A sound already growing dim 
Is all I now can hold of him. 
In this wide world that thinning sound — 
First threat of lengthening miles of ground- 
Is all the wealth I still possess, 
My dwindling store of loveliness; 
An ebbing tide, a fading ghost, 
Poor wraith of all I cherish most. 

The crowned heart of love's delight 
Is hunted out into the night: 
A golden pinnacle of flame 
Is turned to smoke — a sigh — a name: 
The song of angels' dancing feet 
Become an echo in the street. . . . 
O dying sound, O scarce-drawn breath, 
You whisper, fail ; and then comes death., 
Darkness: and no footstep more. 
Turn, go in, and shut the door. 
261 



262 ANY SOLDIER'S WIFji 

II 

The lark springs up from sleepy earth 
To dance and soar on wings of mirth, 
Dull clouds are cleft, a crystal spire 
Shoots up, the air is flaked with fire 
As on he sweeps in radiant rings, 
Wild music scattering from his wings. 

O lark, I know you — lovely life 
Unsapped by dual inward strife, 
Whose perfect joy is speeding whole 
In conscious rapture to your goal, 
Who does not plan with downward eye 
How far 'tis safe to sing and fly, 
Nor heed fear's whisper bidding stoop: 
"What now if hawk or kite should swoop?" 

There is a time for ground and nest, 
For voiceless joy and folded rest; 
Only when song and flight are spent 
Utterly, will you drop, content, 
Your heart and love's heart wholly one 
Because you did not fear to run 
Across the unknown fields of space, 
And take life's challenge face to face. 

When I give all I have to give 
I'll make no bargain that he live 
To lie again upon this breast. 
There is a time for ground and nest. 



ANY SOLDIER'S WIFE 263 

He'll come when he has flamed in flight 
Across these heavy mists of night, 
And, singing like the skylark, run 
To greet a newly risen sun. 

And I who watch and bless him forth, 
Though he go south and I go north, 
Would take with him the skyward way 
And clamber up the stairs of day: 
Pour life in careless jewelled flow, 
Nor pause, nor plan, nor look below. 

O small brave lark, O brother dear, 
Sing to us through the next long year; 
For life's adventurers are we, 
And life calls you, and him, and me. 

Dorothy Plowman. 



Moods and Memories 



cxv 
The Listeners 

i HE guns! 



T 



Far, far away in the distance we hear them. 
Oh, for a chance to be there, to be near them, 
Borne on the wind in the stillness of night 
Far-away sounds of the thunderous fight. 
Guns! 

Nightly ere sleeping our senses we strain, 
Faintly we hear it — the muttered refrain. 
Would we were free to be fighting again. 
Hark to the guns! 

Well do we know all the horrors of night, 
Darkness made day by the calcium light, 
Nothing but wreckage revealed to the sight. 
Hark to the guns! 

Yet would we break inactivity's spell 
Just foi one night in that shuddering hell, 
Thunder of guns and the scream of the shell. 
Hark to the guns! 
267 



268 THE LISTENERS 

The guns! 
Breathless we wait for the news of the fray, 
News of the guns that are nearer to-day. 
Nearer they mutter, they thunder, they roll! 
Nearer to victory, nearer their goal. 
Guns! 

J. M. Rose-Troup. 

Weilburg a. d. Lahn, 
May 1916. 



CXVI 

Outposts 

WHEN the moonlit shadows creep, 
When the sun beats pitiless down, 
Steadfast, vigilant they keep 

Watch and ward about the town. 

Guardians of an Empire's gate, 

In the sunshine and the dust 
Still beside their guns they wait, 

Faithful to their weary trust. 

Not for them the hero's cross, 

Not for them the hero's grave, 
Thrill of victory, pain of loss, 

Praise of those they fell to save. 

Only days of monotone, 

Sand and fever, flies and fret, 
All unheeded and unknown, 

Little thanks they're like to get. 
269 



270 OUTPOSTS 

Yet mayhap in after-days 

— Distant eye the clearer sees — 
Gods apportioning the praise 
Shall be kindly unto these. 

A. L. Jenkins. 
Aden, 1916. 



CXVII 

Tears 

SILENCE o'erwhelms the melody of Night, 
Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh 
For their past vivid vernal ecstasy. 
The branches and the leaves let in the light 
In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky 
— Create mysterious Gothic tracery, 
Between those high dark pillars, — that affright 
Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by. 

Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain, 
Making each frail tired sigh, a sob of pain : 
Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear 
Such as are shed by Pierrots, when they fear 
Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death. 
The world is waxen ; and the wind's least breath 
Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth 
Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth 
To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf, 
Which falls to bury from our sight its grief. 

OSBERT SlTWELL. 



271 



CXVIII 

The Tryst 

i 

THERE was a peace at eve no other hour 
Knows of : the east, a dusken tapestry of yellow light 
Woven with feathers from the wings of birds in flight, 
Curtained the presence of an unseen Power. 

I stood between deep ranks of pillaring pine 

In a small glade, and up above a cupola more deep 

Recessed into the blueness of the sky. All wrapped in 

sleep 
Save the unresting vigil of starshine. 

And then I called on God. The pinetops kissed, 
The sky was suddenly disturbed, vague eddies in the air 
Scattered night-perfumes, cloud-sheets raced, grass rustled 

everywhere, 
Nature made preparation for that mighty tryst. 

II 

Clutching thine hand, sweet Death, my tranquil friend. 
And nestling close to thee, I shall have power 
To rest uninjured by the transient hour, 
Knowing my end. 

272 



THE TRYST 273 

I shall be held above the eddying tide 

Into a sunlit quiet, and thence hide 

With but an outstretched palm the wearying crowd, 

'Twixt whom and God a gulf unknownly wide 

Is fixed, to drown their littlenesses loud. 

Blow forth, Death's herald, from thy silver horn 

Strains sweeter far than birds a-song at morn. 



Ill 



All day he moved not, lying low amid 

The cool fresh odorous grass. He heard the trill 

Of water leaping somewhere shadow-hid, 

And in unfettered rapture drank his fill 

Of deep rose odour, till sleep stole unbid 

Upon him, with the music of the rill. 



He woke in darkness. 'Twixt him and the skies 
Darted the black things of the middle night — 
While all around broke shrill and tragic cries 
As of hope dead, and fancy put to flight. 
And somewhere, hidden from his burning eyes, 
Cold dropping water set his heart affright. 

A. J. 



CXIX 

The Warrior Month 

STRONG March, what wonder that I think of war 
When thou art triumphing across the sky 
With bannered cloud and trump of victory 
Bloodless, and not as our red triumphs are, 
And in thy happy conquest spreading far 

The Spring's green welcome ravage, biddest fly 
Those dull oppressors of the land, the sly 
Old monarch Winter and his consort Care. 

A happy gain to all, a loss to none! 

But we, how great soe'er our triumphs be 
Ever gain less than we have lost alone, 

And less than even our broken enemy 
Get from the thought how their brave dead have known 

Nought of their country's dire calamity. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 



274 



cxx 
Back in Billets 

WE'RE in billets again, and to-night, if you please, 
I shall strap myself up in a Wolsey valise. 
What's that, boy? Your boots give you infinite pain? 
You can chuck them away: we're in billets again. 

We're in billets again now and, barring alarms, 
There'll be no occasion for standing to arms, 
And you'll find if you'd many night-watches to keep 
That the hour before daylight's the best hour for sleep. 

We're feasting on chocolate, cake, currant buns, 
To a faint German-band obligato of guns, 
For I've noticed, wherever the regiment may go, 
That we always end up pretty close to the foe. 

But we're safe out of reach of trench mortars and snipers 

Five inches south-west of the "Esses" in Ypres; 

— Old Bob, who knows better, pronounces it Yper 

But don't argue the point now — you'll waken the sleeper. 

Our host brings us beer up, our thirst for to quench, 
So we'll drink him good fortune in English and French : 

275 



276 BACK IN BILLETS 

— Bob, who finds my Parisian accent a blemish, 
Goes one better himself in a torrent of Flemish. 

It's a fortnight on Friday since Christopher died, 

And John's at Boulogne with a hole in his side, 

While poor Harry's got lost, the Lord only knows where ; — 

May the Lord keep them all and ourselves in His care. 

. . . Mustn't think we don't mind when a chap gets laid out, 
They've taken the best of us, never a doubt; 
But with life pretty busy and death rather near 
We've no time for regret any more than for fear. 

. . . Here's a health to our host, Isidore Deschildre, 
Himself and his wife and their plentiful childer, 
And the brave aboyeur who bays our return ; 
More power to his paws when he treads by the churn ! 

You may speak of the Ritz or the Curzon (Ma5 r fair) 
And maintain that they 'keep you in luxury there: 
If you've lain for six weeks on a water-logged plain, 
Here's the acme of comfort, in billets again. 

Charles Scott-Moncrieff. 

February 191 5. 



CXX1 



Progress 



AH Progress, what a sorry claim thou hast 
To be accounted worthy of thy name ! 
Availing less than a weak candle-flame 
Before our steady accusation's blast. 
Thy life is forfeit — thou that never wast 

More than a word between the lips of shame, 
A subtle lie that so like truth became, 
That all unknown our skies grew overcast! 

The mind triumphant — making hideous war, 

A reeking shambles all impossible, 
Yet luring on the nations near and far 

To that red end? Arise, ye dead, and tell 
How in our hate we hate no less than ye, 

And in our love love not more tenderly. 

WlLLOUGHBY WEAVING. 



277 



CXXII 

The Hills 

MUSSOORIE and Chakrata Hill 
The Jumna flows between; 
And from Chakrata's hills afar 

Mussoorie's vale is seen. 
The mountains sing together 
In cloud or sunny weather, 
The Jumna, through their tether, 
Foams white, or plunges green. 

The mountains stand and laugh at Time; 

They pillar up the earth, 
They watch the ages pass, they bring 

New centuries to birth. 
They feel the daybreak shiver, 
They see Time passing ever 
As flows the Jumna River, 

As breaks the white sea-surf. 

They drink the sun in a golden cup, 

And in blue mist the rain; 
With a sudden brightening they meet the lightning 

Or ere it strikes the plain. 
278 



THE HILLS 279 



They seize the sullen thunder, 
And take it up for plunder, 
And cast it down and under, 
And up and back again. 



They are as changeless as the rock, 
As changeful as the sea ; 

They rest, but as a lover rests 
After love's ecstasy. 

They watch, as a true lover 

Watches the quick lights hover 

About the lids that cover 
His eyes so wearily. 



Heaven lies upon their breasts at night, 
Heaven kisses them at dawn ; 

Heaven clasps and kisses them at even 
With fire of the sun's death born. 

They turn to his desire 

Their bosom, flushing higher 

With soft receptive fire, 
And blushing, passion-torn. 



Here, in the hills of ages 
I met thee face to face; 

O mother Earth, O lover Earth, 
Look down on me with grace. 



280 THE HILLS 

Give me thy passion burning, 
And thy strong patience, turning 
All wrath to power, all yearning 
To truth, thy dwelling-place. 

Julian Grenfell. 



CXXIII 

On Account of III Health 

YOU go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind, 
To read with frowning eyes and discontented mind 
The shining history that you are gone to make, 
To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awake 
Into another day of most ignoble peace, 
To drowse, to read, to smoke, to pray that war may cease. 
The spring is coming on, and with the spring you go 
In countries where strange scents on the April breezes blow ; 
You'll see the primroses marched down into the mud, 
You'll see the hawthorn-tree wear crimson flowers of blood, 
And I shall walk about, as I did walk of old, 
Where the laburnum trails its chains of useless gold, 
I'll break a branch of may, I'll pick a violet 
And see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget, 
I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songs, 
But with your regiment my marching soul belongs. 
Men that have marched with me and men that I have led 
Shall know and feel the things that I have only read, 
Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies 
And to expect their death what time the sun shall rise. 
Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again, 
Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain, 

281 



282 ON ACCOUNT OF ILL HEALTH 

Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under, 
And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder. 
Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged, 
I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged. 

Edward Shanks. 



CXXIV 

Last Lines 



AH ! Hate like this would freeze our human tears, 
And stab the morning star: 
Not it, not it commands and mourns and bears 
The storm and bitter glory of red war. 

ii 
To J. H. S. M., killed in action, March 13, 191 5 

O brother, I have sung no dirge for thee: 

Nor for all time to come 
Can song reveal my grief's infinity: 

The menace of thy silence made me dumb. 

R. W. Sterling. 



283 



cxxv 



A Prayer 



LORD, if it be Thy will 
That I enter the great shadowed valley that lies 
Silent, just over the hill, 

Grant they may say, "There's a comrade that dies 
Waving his hand to us still!" 

Lord, if there come the end, 

Let me find space and breath all the dearest I prize 

Into Thy hands to commend: 

Then let me go, with my boy's laughing eyes 

Smiling a word to a friend. 

W. H. Littlejohn. 



CXXVI 

The God who waits 

THE old men in the olden days, 
Who thought and worked in simple ways, 
Believed in God and sought His praise. 

They looked to God in daily need, 
He shone in simple, homely deed; 
They prayed to Him to raise their seed. 

He sowed on mountain side and weald, 
He steered the plough across the field, 
He garnered in their harvest yield. 

And if He gave them barren sod, 

Or smote them with His lightning rod, 

They yielded humbly to their God. 

They searched the record of their days 
To find and mend their evil ways, 
Which made the wrath of God to blaze. 
285 



286 THE GOD WHO WAITS 

And if no evil they could find, 
They did not say, "Our God is blind," 
"God's will be done," they said, resigned. 

So played the old their humble part, 
And lived in peace of soul and heart, 
Without pretence of Reason's art. 

But we have lost their simple creed 
Of simple aim and simple need, 
Of simple thought and simple deed. 

Their creed has crumbled as their dust, 
We do not yield their God as just, 
Now question holds the place of trust. 

Faith blossomed like the Holy Rod, 
So grew the old men's faith in God. 
We cannot tread the path they trod. 

We were not born to anchored creed 
That measures good and evil deed — 
A guide to those who guidance need. 

The God the old men hearkened to 
We left, and in our image drew 
And fashioned out a God anew. 

That iron God, who still unfed, 
Sits throned with lips that dribble red 
Among the sacrificial dead. 



THE GOD WHO WAITS 287 

Belching their flames between the bars, 
Our fires sweep out like scimitars 
Across the Eden of the stars. 



And souls are sold and souls are bought, 
And souls in hellish tortures wrought 
To feed the mighty Juggernaut. 

The dripping wheels go roaring by 
And crush and kill us where we lie 
Blaspheming God with our last cry. 

Man's cry to man the heaven fills; 
We hear not in our marts and mills 
The silent voices of the hills: 

The message of the breathing clay, 
Calling us through the night and day 
To come away, to come away! 

For though old creeds, had we the will, 
We cannot, lacking faith, fulfil, 
The God above all creed waits still. 

For still beyond the city gate, 
The fallow fields eternal wait 
For us to drive our furrow straight. 

Leslie Coulson. 



CXXVII 

Judgment 

SO be it, God, I take what Thou dost give, 
And gladly give what Thou dost take away. 
For me Thy choice is barren days and grey. 
Unquestioning Thy ordered days I live, 
I do not seek to sift in Reason's sieve — 
Thou rangest far beyond our Reason's sway. 
We are but poor, uncomprehending clay, 
For Thee to mould as Thou dost well conceive. 

But when my blanched days of sorrow end, 
And this poor clay for funeral is drest, 
Then shall my soul to Thy Gold Gate ascend, 
Then shall my soul soar up and summon Thee 
To tell me why. And as Thou answerest, 
So shall I judge Thee, God, not Thou judge me. 

Leslie Coulson. 



288 



CXXVIII 

The Hospital Ship 

THERE is a green-lit hospital ship, 
Green, with a crimson cross, 
Lazily swaying there in the bay, 
Lazily bearing my friend away, 
Leaving me dull-sensed loss. 
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship, 
Numb is my heart, but you carelessly dip 
There in the drift of the bay. 

There is a green-lit hospital ship, 

Dim as the distance grows, 

Speedily steaming out of the bay, 

Speedily bearing my friend away 

Into the orange-rose. 

Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship, 

Dim are my eyes, but you heedlessly slip 

Out of their sight from the bay. 



There was a green-lit hospital ship, 
Green, with a blood-red cross, 
289 



290 THE HOSPITAL SHIP 

Lazily swaying there in the bay, 

But it went out with the light of the day — 

Out where the white seas toss. 

Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship, 

Cold are my hands and trembling my lip: 

Did you make home from the bay? 

W. H. LlTTLEJOHN. 



I 



CXXIX 

The Rainbow 

WATCH the white dawn gleam, 
To the thunder of hidden guns. 
I hear the hot shells scream 
Through skies as sweet as a dream 

Where the silver dawn-break runs. 
And stabbing of light 
Scorches the virginal white. 
But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill, 
And I thank the gods that the dawn is beautiful still. 



From death that hurtles by 

I crouch in the trench day-long, 
But up to a cloudless sky 
From the ground where our dead men lie 

A brown lark soars in song. 
Through the tortured air, 
Rent by the shrapnel's flare, 
Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill, 
And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still. 

291 



292 THE RAINB©W 

Where the parapet is low 

And level with the eye 
Poppies and cornflowers glow 
And the corn sways to and fro 

In a pattern against the sky. 
The gold stalks hide 
Bodies of men who died 
Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill. 
I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still. 

When night falls dark we creep 

In silence to our dead. 

We dig a few feet deep 

And leave them there to sleep — 

But blood at night is red, 

Yea, even at night, 

And a dead man's face is white. 

And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill, 

And I look at the stars — for the stars are beautiful still. 

Leslie Coulson. 
France, 

August ith, 1916. 



cxxx 
Escape 

(August 6, 191 6. Officer previously reported Died 
of Wounds, now reported Wounded. Graves, 
Capt. R., Royal Welsh Fusiliers) 



B 



UT I was dead, an hour or more: 

I woke when I'd already passed the door 
That Cerberus guards and half-way down the road 
To Lethe, as an old Greek sign-post showed. 
Above me, on my stretcher swinging by, 
I saw new stars in the sub-terrene sky, 
A Cross, a Rose in Bloom, a Cage with Bars, 
And a barbed Arrow feathered with fine stars. 
I felt the vapours of forgetfulness 
Float in my nostrils: Oh, may Heaven bless 
Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake 
And, stooping over me, for Henna's sake 
Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back 
Breathless, with leaping heart along the track. 
After me roared and clattered angry hosts 
Of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts. 
"Life, life! I can't be dead, I won't be dead: 

293 



294 ESCAPE 

Damned if I'll die for any one," I said . . . 

Cerberus stands and grins above me now, 

Wearing three heads, lion and lynx and sow. 

"Quick, a revolver! but my Webley's gone, 

Stolen ... no bombs ... no knife . . . (the crowd swarms on, 

Bellows, hurls stones) . . . not even a honeyed sop . . . 

Nothing . . . Good Cerberus . . . Good dog . . . but stop! 

Stay! ... a great luminous thought ... I do believe 

There's still some morphia that I bought on leave." 

Then swiftly Cerberus' wide mouths I cram 

With Army biscuit smeared with Tickler's jam; 

And Sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple. 

He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple 

With the all-powerful poppy . . . then a snore, 

A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor 

With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun — 

Too late: for I've sped through. 

OLife! OSun! 

Robert Graves. 



CXXXI 

Good JVishes 

GOOD luck, good health, good temper, these, 
A very hive of honey-bees 
To make and store up happiness, 
Should wait upon you without cease, 
If I'd the power to call them down 
Into this stuffy little town, 
Where the dull air in sticky wreaths 
Afflicts a man each time he breathes. 
But since I have no power to call 
Benevolent spirits down at all, 
I'll wish you all the good I know 
And close the chapter up and go. 

Edward Shanks. 



395 
























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